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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381326">Fact and Fantasy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/revealing/pseuds/revealing'>revealing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Polyamory, The Witcher Secret Santa 2020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:54:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>139,450</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381326</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/revealing/pseuds/revealing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Geralt is a cryptid lore expert trying to write his first book, struggling through insecurities and unfamiliar territory with the help of his editor Regis and his illustrator Dettlaff. Meanwhile, he's navigating two other difficult situations: a messy co-parents with benefits relationship with his adopted daughter Ciri's biological father Emhyr, and the slightly more than professional attachment he's developing to long-term couple Dettlaff and Regis. The monsters he writes about are far from the scariest things Geralt deals with while trying to finish his book and make Ciri proud.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dettlaff van der Eretein/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Witcher Secret Santa 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/gifts">Omano</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic was written for <a href="http://omaano.tumblr.com">omaano</a> @ <a href="https://thewitchersecretsanta.tumblr.com">The Witcher Secret Santa 2020</a>.</p><blockquote>
  <p>Hello dear recipient! As you know from my visits to your inbox, I had a lot of fun with this fic. After months of you wondering which ships we matched on and what the fic pairing would be... surprise! We matched on both of my favorite ships (Dettlaff/Geralt/Regis and Emhyr/Geralt), so you get both. Since your wishes were very open-ended, I took a few of them (modern AU, hurt/comfort, softness, angst/twists to the heart with a happy ending, feelings realizations, NSFW... and a few things you mentioned enjoying in a comment on another one of my fics) and ran with them. I hope you like the direction I went!</p>
</blockquote>Thank you to the Witcher Secret Santa mods for all your hard work in organizing and running this event.<p>(Fic is fully written, editing is still underway.)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There are five leaves in the middle of the little table at the edge of the garden where Geralt's sitting with an untouched cup of tea and hoping Dettlaff and Regis haven't forgotten about him. He knows it's unlikely they have, but he arranged the leaves into a flower pattern ten minutes after they were supposed to arrive to keep himself from dwelling on the fact that it's possible. That took all of thirty seconds, so it wasn't a great distraction. </p><p>It was Regis's idea to meet at this café. The places Geralt meets with his editor are always his editor's idea. Regis said something on their introductory phone call about how he's "found it beneficial to connect with writers in natural settings to avoid the stiffness and contrivance of formalized conferences", and Geralt said something about how much he hates phone calls, so Regis chuckled and called the two of them "a perfect match" and has been taking him places ever since. Regis knows great spots all around downtown Daevon, and he quickly honed in on the fact that Geralt likes places with plants and tea. He must be right about the "stiffness and contrivance" thing, because their meetups are a lot more comfortable than Geralt thought they'd be. Bringing Geralt's illustrator Dettlaff along to their meetings was also Regis's idea, but that's turned out to be a good idea too. </p><p>The garden is pleasant to Geralt - or, at least, as pleasant as a place in downtown-anywhere can be. He lives on the far eastern outskirts of the area surrounding the small city in western Kaedwen, up in the heavily-forested hills, and he'd live a lot further out if he didn't have a daughter who needs to be near civilization. Even the outdoor area of a café is a lot of stimulation for him today, with the way he's been shut inside his isolated tree-overshadowed house for the past ten days. The sunlight is too bright for his eyes, which are already sensitive as an effect of whatever condition caused their strange yellow color and cat pupil shape, and the four other people sitting across the garden are four too many after he's had no in-person interactions with anyone but Ciri for at least two weeks. Geralt's never been a social person, never one to go out to highly populated areas, but he's been keeping to himself up in the hills even more than usual since he's started writing his book. The effects are painfully obvious. Luckily, Geralt was able to solve both the sun and people problems by tucking himself away in a corner shaded by a bunch of heavy branches that provided him some relief from the stimuli. And five leaves. </p><p>The only thing is, Geralt's been sitting here alone for fifteen minutes longer than he thought he'd be. He knows it's Regis's and Dettlaff's jobs to meet with him, but he can't help wondering if they've decided it's not worth their time to come out here in person and any minute now they're going to text him with some excuse to switch to a phone call. Geralt's heard most editors and illustrators work mainly over phone calls and emails, and he doesn't know if that's true because he knows less than nothing about the publishing industry, but it hasn't been true of Dettlaff and Regis in the four months they've been working together. So far. That could change. The last chapter of <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> that Geralt sent them was horrible - even more horrible than usual - so it could've be the one that finally scared them off. Geralt's fidgeting is usually limited to things like adjusting sleeves or gloves, but in the past five minutes he's taken his long and increasingly messy white hair in and out of its half-bun, then half-ponytail, then lopsided half-contained bird's nest, enough times that the friction from his hands has frizzed it up.</p><p>"Geralt! My sincerest apologies for our tardiness. We encountered a series of unusual and unanticipated delays," a voice calls from the door to the indoor area of the café. Geralt turns his head to see Regis and Dettlaff. The editor looks harried, several papers sticking out of his messenger bag and his receding grey hair dishevelled. The illustrator is as expressionless as always, but he's breathing a little heavier than usual, like he's been running. Regis is holding a cup of tea in one hand and clutching the strap of his bag with the other, which Geralt's figured out is either something to do with his hands or a nervous habit depending on the circumstances. He's going to go with nervous habit here. The flower-patterned leaves scatter as Regis sets his tea hastily on the table and shrugs the bag off his shoulder, slinging the strap over the chair across from Geralt and sitting down like the furniture will vanish if he's not in it within seconds. Dettlaff takes the chair next to Regis without a word, because he doesn't talk much, but gives Geralt that deep nod and long look that serves as a greeting for him. "I promise we're never this late, and will not be again. Truly unacceptable -" </p><p>"Haven't been here long," Geralt says, partially because he doesn't want Regis to feel bad and partially because he knows what it sounds like when Regis is about to ramble on for twenty minutes if nobody stops him. His apologies get especially long-winded. "Don't mind anyway. Nice place." </p><p>Geralt makes a point of saying he likes each location Regis brings him to, because Regis gets a pleased look on his face when he does. Regis enjoys knowing he's picked out good "natural settings" for his writers, especially skittish ones like Geralt, so Geralt makes sure Regis thinks he has even when he's selected somewhere that's too busy or loud. A lot of the places are outside Geralt's comfort zone, not to mention a long drive from rural nowhere, but that's to be expected. Geralt's comfort zone is almost entirely limited to the forest around his house and his balcony porch. Meeting with his book team has gotten him out into the world more than anything has in a long time, even Ciri, and it's the closest he's had to a group hangout in an eternity. Regis says he brings Dettlaff along "so our team can be on the same page - figuratively, of course, the interplay of creation and revision is a winding process", but Geralt's pretty sure it has at least a little bit to do with the fact that the two of them are dating. Or, a lot more than dating. They've been partners for over a decade and "will be so for the remainder of our decades", according to Regis, which is just short of sickeningly sweet. </p><p>"Is it? Splendid." Regis gives Geralt that pleased look, the crow's feet around his soft black eyes crinkling and his partially open smile showing his sharper than average teeth. Regis is odd looking, with his archaic mutton-chop sideburns and his worn out vests he clearly patches himself - despite the fact that he and Dettlaff have enough money for a nice apartment in North Daevon and a home laboratory for what Regis calls "botanical medicine experiments" - but Geralt likes it. Regis has the easy confidence and dignity of a man who's too satisfied with his lot in life to be concerned about being visibly middle-aged, and comfortable enough in his stature to be shabby by choice. The strange combination is a lot more attractive than it has any right to be. "Well, my dear author, how have you been?"</p><p>"Been alright," Geralt says, and takes too big a sip of his astringent green tea. He's gotten the feeling that Regis calls everybody <em>dear</em>, but it still leaves the inside of his chest a lot warmer than it should be. "Writing." </p><p>That's the only update Geralt has, because it's all he's been doing. It probably shows in the dark circles under his eyes, the uneven split ends of his hair, his untrimmed beard, and the ragged dark green t-shirt he threw over a pair of old jeans with holes in the knees when he realized he was almost running late for this meeting. Turns out he could've spared a few more seconds to look for a better outfit than the last-resort clean clothes at the top of his nearly empty drawer. Geralt's been scattery, bad with time, worse with self-maintenance, and worst of all at setting work/life boundaries since he quit his job as a metalworker to write a book. He doesn't know how to write a book, and never expected to do it, which is throwing a wrench in the gears. But writing full-time, and living off the advance he still can't believe he got, let him finally get out of the job he'd wanted to quit ever since his first day at it seven years ago. Geralt never wanted to be a metalworker, but he and his newly obtained daughter Ciri needed money. And now Ciri's the reason Geralt's writing <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>: she encouraged him to do it, and she wants him to write it more than he does. In the end, that's what's keeping him going. </p><p>"Yes, I've seen," Regis says. "I thoroughly enjoyed your most recent chapter: <em>Ozzrel the Alghoul</em>. As did Dettlaff." </p><p>Dettlaff nods at Geralt again, backing up the sentiment with the forceful look in his eyes. Dettlaff's quiet, but not in a way that makes it easy to forget about him. His presence is too strong for that. It's not just the way Dettlaff's appearance stands out, though it does: the illustrator wears all black clothes and boots, usually with a long cardigan or trenchcoat even in the late summer heat. He always looks like he's standing in the shadows, even when he's in direct sunlight. His face is ordinarily expressionless, and his eerie light blue eyes focus in an unintentional glare that's so piercing they threaten to burn a hole in anything they fix on. But there are gentler details about Dettlaff, if anybody is brave enough to look for them. The fine lines in his paper-pale skin prove he does make facial expressions, even smiles sometimes. His midnight black hair ends in soft little curls, and there are a few white streaks by his temple. Geralt always has to keep himself from thinking about why he finds hair streaks like that so attractive, but he does. Whenever Dettlaff talks, it's always something worth saying, and his voice is so low and nearly hypnotic that Geralt couldn't keep from listening if he tried. </p><p>Regis takes a drink of his tea like it's the beginning of a sentence, then puts the teacup down with definitive force. "Well, shall we get to discussing Chapter 4? And, of course, your general progress. Along with anything else you'd like to discuss, book or otherwise." </p><p>"Yeah. Guess we could talk about the chapter," Geralt says. He tries not to sound as reluctant as he is. All his chapters are terrible, because that's what happens when someone with no idea how to write is set loose on a notebook and a word processor and told to make something resembling a work of literature in them, but this one is particularly - egregious is probably the word Regis would use. He hopes Regis doesn't actually end up using it, but if he were Regis, he sure would. "It's... Guess you've read it already. Rough draft, kind of. Just getting the words out there." </p><p>As Geralt tries to justify why Chapter 4 reads like Ozzrel the Alghoul wrote it, feeling like he has to make an excuse for the quality even though he knows there's no excuse for it and he tries to never make excuses in the first place, he can see Regis's hand absentmindedly moving to hold Dettlaff's on the table. It's so natural Regis doesn't even think about it, but it makes sense that it would be, after - 12 years together, Geralt thinks he said. Dettlaff and Regis are clearly good together, the kind of couple that's gotten so comfortable functioning as a single unit that they don't need to talk much about it. They're nothing alike, and they seem like they're from two different worlds, but they balance each other out so well that it works. Regis told Geralt the two of them don't get to work together often, so they were looking forward to taking this project on as a couple ("but a couple of professionals, of course") and Geralt thought it was nice that his book gave them that chance. And Geralt appreciates getting to work more closely with Dettlaff throughout the whole process than he might otherwise, since Dettlaff's art is going to be a big part of Geralt's book. </p><p><em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> is part bestiary and part urban legend compilation. It's about, well, cryptids. Twelve of them, to be precise. Things like Ureus the Cemetaur, the Hellhound, and the wolf-beast Voref. Those mythical creatures that people hunt for and swear they see but never manage to get real evidence of. Geralt's an expert on cryptids, even though he doesn't really believe in them - well, most of them. He's done basic write-ups on cryptids and monsters and fantasy beasts for a few bestiaries and local histories before this, so at least the subject material's not out of his depth. Just the book itself. But it's got a shape, at least. Geralt's structured the book with one chapter per cryptid: a description of the creature and an illustration of it at the beginning of the chapter, then a legend about it told in story format. And so far, that's working.</p><p>The concept seemed a little disjointed to Geralt when he wrote up a messy typo-filled pitch for it - an unknowing attempt at what Regis would later tell him is called "a query letter" - and sent it off to Fairy Light Press, the first result in an online search for <em>places tht publish books abuot magic creatures</em> (he's not great at online searches). That's because it was an impulse. Geralt and Ciri had a routine going: Geralt would have a shitty day at the metalworking shop, Geralt would talk to Ciri about monsters, Ciri would sigh loudly and tell him he was miserable and he should quit his job to write a book about monsters, Geralt would tell Ciri he wouldn't know how the hell to write a book about monsters, and then Ciri would sigh again and tell him to figure how the hell to write a book about monsters because <em>Geralt, you are miserable</em>. Then one day, finally, Geralt got hit with an epiphany regarding how the hell to write a book about monsters. He dashed out a proposal, emailed it to Fairy Light, and expected nothing to come of it. But then, something did. And now Geralt's got <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy, by Geralt Bellegarde</em>. Or, part of it. </p><p>"Naturally. Getting words out there is, in fact, the writing process." Regis smiles in a way that's just short of patronizing, and the words should either annoy Geralt or make him feel dumb, but Regis says them so kindly that they don't. Regis bumps right up against the edge of patronizing sometimes, but it's never intentional, just a side effect of being an expert in multiple fields and too wise for anyone's good. "You're doing precisely what you ought to be. You get the words out there, and then I assist you with them. All is in order." </p><p>Regis is a developmental editor, which means he helps a lot more with the creation of Geralt's book than other types of editors. He explained the whole book-creation-and-editing-process to Geralt during their introductory phone call, which he referred to as "our journey through the beautiful and exquisite adventure of literature production", then cut it down to "you write and I help" when it was clear that Geralt wasn't keeping up with his painfully detailed road map. Regis told him the publisher had decided Geralt needed "ongoing substantive editing services" and Regis himself had decided Geralt needed "a kind and supportive guiding hand". Geralt thinks was a polite way of telling him the publisher was aware he didn't know how to write a book and assigned him a babysitter with the skills and patience to drag a quality product out of his misshapen heap of words. Which is exactly what Geralt needs, and he's not afraid to admit he doesn't know what he's doing. Doesn't know anything about publishing, or editing, or writing anything that isn't a straightforward three-paragraph-long monster description. Regis tries to reassure him otherwise, but Regis is too nice to Geralt to be believed.</p><p>"Got some notes for me, then?" Geralt says. This is how they work: Regis meets with Geralt to discuss the bigger picture stuff, what he calls "conceptual and structural and stylistic considerations", then gives Geralt background for the more specific things he's going to send in a very detailed email later. They both know Geralt struggles with large amounts of notes, and doesn't have the skill or time or energy to do the smaller-picture fixes, so most of the emails' content is in a section labeled "Suggested Changes and/or Adjustments That I Am Happy to Implement for You, Should You Be Amenable to It" that Geralt signs off on without asking questions. Theoretically he's supposed to come up with questions and have a phone call with Regis about them, but he doesn't know what to look for in the notes or what to ask about them. He doesn't need to, though. Regis is good at the both the notes thing and the implementing-changes-and-adjustments thing. Geralt always likes how the revised work comes back to him, and he trusts Regis with the book more than he trusts himself. </p><p>"Ah, but of course. You know I could not leave you empty-handed." Regis smiles and lifts his messenger bag into his lap, then rummages through it until he emerges with a thick stack of paper. Regis prints things out and writes on them the old fashioned way, marking up the text and making notes all over the margins and on the backs of pages until every inch of the paper is covered in green cursive. Regis uses a green pen instead of a red pen because he says red pens make comments look "harsh and punitive, inducing anxiety and dredging up childhood insecurities caused by teachers prone to excessive use of harsh ink". Which is a convoluted way of saying red pens scare writers. Geralt didn't attend school more than the bare minimum and didn't pay attention or do anything when he did show up, so he doesn't have that childhood reference point, but he trusts Regis on the intimidation thing. Regis's green pen is apparently intended to "evoke feelings of nurturing and growth" because of something to do with plants, and as someone who likes plants, Geralt thinks that reasoning makes sense. "This chapter was an absolute delight to read, analyze, and annotate. And there was copious annotation to be done." </p><p>"You mean you had a lot to correct." Geralt sees Dettlaff's eyes go over the notes on the papers, and wonders if Dettlaff's seen the criticisms before. Regis has mentioned they make a point to read his work together after reading it separately, some kind of couples-night-in thing that apparently includes coziness and warm beverages. Which made Geralt feel inexplicably shy and embarrassed and also a little wistful, thinking of Dettlaff and Regis cuddled up together on their sofa sharing a cup of tea as they flip through the pages Geralt struggled alone in the dark to churn out. Geralt hadn't considered until now, though, whether this happens before or after the green pen mark-up. Whether Regis remarks on his work's flaws, or the notes he plans to make. Whether Dettlaff comments on its shortcomings too. Geralt tries not to hang his head like a kicked puppy, knowing if they discuss his writing together that must happen. </p><p>"Geralt, my dear creator of lore-related literary magic. Have you forgotten yet again what I always tell you?" Regis replies, kindly and almost sympathetically. "My notes are not <em>corrections</em>. They are simply observations that are intended to stimulate thought, identify potential spots for improvement, draw attention to strong points, and gently prompt revisions." </p><p>"Right." Geralt doesn't bother trying to sound convinced. Regis already knows he's too nice to Geralt to be taken without a grain of salt. </p><p>This chapter has a lot of those spots for improvement, and needs a lot of those prompted revisions. All the others do too. That's because, right from the start, there was a problem built into the concept of the book itself: those story format monster legends. By design, three-quarters of the book is content Geralt doesn't have the slightest idea how to write. He had this image in his mind of the stories being written like something out of a fantasy novel, in a style somebody might use to tell tales of heroic knights and terrifying dragons and fair maidens. It seemed like a great plan, until he opened his brand new green spiral notebook on Day 1 of writing <em>Cryptids</em> and discovered he hadn't realized how big of an issue it was going to be that he's never actually read fiction books. He's heard stories like that, but never <em>read</em> them. Growing up, Geralt never had books. Nobody gave them to him, and even if he'd been interested in reading some, he wouldn't have known where to get them and couldn't afford them anyway. Sometimes foster siblings told him stories from books they'd read, and that was as close as he got. He never developed an interest in reading fiction books for himself, and wouldn't have known where to start.</p><p>Cryptid storytelling is largely an oral tradition, and tales about beasts like that are usually spoken or written out like they're being spoken. Geralt's first introduction to monster stories was sitting on the neighbor's porch at his first foster home, and watching the old woman wave her wrinkly hands around in the most captivating way while she told him about bhargests and ghouls and wyverns. That style of storytelling stuck with Geralt, since he'd never seen anyone tell a story that way before. It was the same style used by the man who ran the corner store near the next home he ended up in, then the town historian in the place he ended up after that. Most of the resources out there about monsters fall into one of two categories, or a mix of both: the usual storytelling, ranging from dramatic narratives to casual personal or somebody-told-me anecdotes, and straightforward stuff in a more dry or factual style. Books, websites,  bestiaries, forum posts, videos, documentaries, archived documents, interviews he's conducted with people who claim they've had cryptid encounters or sightings - they tend to hit the same beats. So those are the two baselines Geralt has, and therefore, the two modes he has. Nothing like those dreamy fantasy novels about knights and dragons and maidens. </p><p>All in all, there are a lot of issues built into the book and Geralt's writing of it. He's frankly shocked anybody looked at his <em>got this idea for a book about cryptids...</em> email and thought, <em>I want to see something like that written by this guy</em>. </p><p>"Well, for starters, I found this chapter absolutely fascinating." Regis smiles, and his eyes have lit up in the way they always do when he's talking about a piece of writing. "Not just the choice of beast - which I maintain, as I told you during this chapter's concept phase, was one of the most intriguing creature selections possible - but the choice of legend involving it. You had told me you were going to write something about  a string of disappearances suspected to be Ozzrel-related, but, as you tend to be rather vague in your plans, and I am unfamiliar with this particular cryptid - the pitiable dearth of material on it, and thus your near monopoly on written content regarding it, is part of the brilliance of its inclusion - I was unprepared for how thrilling the story would be!" </p><p>Dettlaff nods emphatically, sipping his coffee as he traces one big finger over a passage that's heavily marked up with scribbles on the text and margins crowded with exclamation points and squished notes in Regis's neat cursive. Geralt sees a tiny alghoul sketched beside it, in the same green pen, and knows that had to be Dettlaff. He can't tell which passage it is, since the paper stack is across the table and he's not wearing his glasses, but he can tell his team members had strong feelings about it. That answers Geralt's question about whether Dettlaff sees the not-corrections, then. At least he finds some stuff he likes.</p><p>"'S'not that interesting," Geralt mumbles, hunching over his tea. He hasn't touched it again after that first sip. Regis and Dettlaff are high-energy and very distracting. </p><p>"On the contrary, Geralt. It's gripping." Regis waves his hand dramatically. "The way you set the scene for the legend - my. I was riveted. The forest! I could hear the snap of the branches, feel the glow of the moon, and smell the stench of ghoul in the air. I know I ask this after every chapter you send me, and the answer is always the same, but I find it so hard to believe that I must ask again - are you sure you haven't written fiction stories before?" </p><p>"Just that stuff for bestiaries and histories." Geralt looks very closely at the surface of his tea, cowed by the praise. It's true that Regis asks him that question every time they meet, and maybe it's some kind of running bit, but it still feels good and difficult to hear it. His chest feels warm like it does when Regis calls him <em>dear</em>. When Dettlaff says something flattering to him. When Regis and Dettlaff tell him they enjoy their meetings with him. When they say they can tell he's working hard. And when they say he's good at telling legends. </p><p>Geralt hasn't written stories before, but he's been telling them for seven years and has wanted to tell them for even longer. When he was younger he wanted to be like that old woman who captivated him with imitated snarling sounds and sudden sharp gestures, or the corner store owner who whispered some parts of the tales like they were secrets for certain ears only, or the town historian who recounted information the world had mostly forgotten about with such seriousness and gravity that sixteen year old Geralt forgot he'd started to feel silly for being so interested in mythical creatures. But Geralt was quiet, didn't like talking much, didn't like interacting with people, didn't have much in the way of expressions, had a gravelly voice that was unpleasant to listen to. So he gave up on the idea of storytelling, until Ciri. When Geralt adopted Ciri she was having nightmares, and Geralt had no idea how to soothe a ten year old girl crying after a nightmare because no one had ever soothed him after his. So he tried to distract her by talking to her, telling her about monsters because those were the only things he could talk about for as long as it took her to calm down. And Ciri loved the stories, which was lucky for Geralt, because he realized later that telling a scared little girl about the fangs and claws of horrifying beasts in the middle of the night could've gone very badly. Geralt told Ciri stories about monsters every time she woke up screaming, and she started asking about them during the daytime, so he talked about them then too. Eventually, Ciri stopped having nightmares. Geralt never did. </p><p>"Well, it was a journey, and an electrifying one. I felt as though the hulking alghoul would leap forth from the page and snatch me up itself." Regis chuckles. "Perhaps you could bring this same style and energy to the section you have in the works on the Vigilosaur. I must confess, as I strive for complete transparency, that I read the first five pages of Chapter 5 that I assume were unintentionally tacked onto the end of the document you sent me. Not with an editor's eye, I promise, though it occurs to me that they could greatly benefit from Chapter 4's vivacious quality." </p><p>Geralt looks up from his tea sharply, quick enough that he almost pulls something in his neck. The strained muscle doesn't hurt as much as the embarrassment. Regis is right that the extra pages stuck onto the bottom of the document were there by accident. It's not like they would've been any better when they intentionally got to Regis in a few weeks, with the way Geralt's attempts to revise his writing without Regis's help never seem to improve it, but he would've at least been psychologically prepared for Regis to see them. He really needs to ask Ciri to teach him how to use that word processor better. "Those pages are bad?" </p><p>"No, far from it," Regis assures him, and Dettlaff nods along. So Dettlaff saw the accidental pages too. And maybe the couple cuddled over them. Fuck. "They could simply use a bit of livening up." </p><p><em>Livening up</em> is a phrase Regis uses often. He had to define it for Geralt the first time he used it, like he does with a lot of the phrases and terms he uses while explaining his editing. Stuff like "scene break" and "tense switch" and "run-on sentence" and "plot hole". It was embarrassing at first, having to be walked through words that it seemed like writers were supposed to know, but Geralt's not a writer and there's still so much he doesn't know that he's gotten used to the mini lessons. Regis is never snobby or judgemental about the knowledge Geralt is missing, and doesn't seem to mind that he has plenty to teach Geralt about writing. Dettlaff doesn't seem to mind that he has plenty to teach Geralt about art. They're both very patient. It's nice. </p><p>"Got it. Bring that style. Liven it up." Geralt nods. He's noticed he gets more positive feedback from Regis when he writes like he's talking to Ciri and then lets the editor and his green pen "polish it just a touch", which is what he did with this chapter. And maybe that's why he felt like it was bad: he kept thinking about the imaginary fantasy novel he wanted it to sound like, the one it will eventually sound like, and got discouraged when it just kept sounding like <em>himself</em>. Regis's feedback makes Geralt feel a little better about the chapter he wanted to stick within range of a slyzard's fiery breath only a few minutes ago. So Geralt tries to joke, "If you can sleep with the lights off after you read it, I didn't do a good enough job." </p><p>Regis chuckles. "Were I the sort to harbor fear of the mysterious, then your chapter on the semi-divine ekhidna Melusine would have rendered me unable to sleep at all." </p><p>The praise has Geralt looking down into the light green depths of his tea again, because he doesn't know what facial expression to make and he can't meet Regis's eyes. He's starting to get a little better at handling it, after four months of Regis and Dettlaff dishing it out frequently, but it still makes him uncomfortable in a good way and every so often one of them will say something that overwhelms him. Something he really wanted to hear, but didn't know he did until he heard it. This is the first time in Geralt's forty-five years of life that he's gotten praise on a regular basis, and before this, compliments were very few and far between. The forewoman at the metalworking shop certainly wasn't the type to dish them out, clients don't tell bodyguards out of the blue that they're doing a great job keeping them in one piece, none of his romantic or sexual partners have been prone to flattery when they've got their clothes on, and his redeeming quality in his childhood was acting like he didn't exist. Ciri expresses her love by making fun of him. So it's strange, and it's new, and it's a lot. </p><p>But this is as good a time as any for unexpected praise to get showered onto Geralt. This book is the first time he's bared his soul to the world. He's written about cryptids before, but it wasn't the same. He didn't put much of himself into it, just strung together facts for someone else's project. This is the first time in his life that he's tried his absolute best to cobble together something creative all on his own, about a topic he really cares about, and he knows how personal the book is because of how exposed and vulnerable he's going to feel when he puts it out there to get ripped apart. Geralt has a thick skin and a small ego, and he spent most of his life being disparaged and abandoned and rejected and attacked until he hit a point where he didn't care what anyone thought of him. Turns out, though, he cares what people think about his little baby project. His work of love. </p><p>Geralt expected Regis to be the first person to rip his book apart, since he'd gotten the idea in his head at some point that editors were supposed to be mean and snap out everything wrong with a work and tell the heartbroken writer to fix all of it or nobody would ever read the damn thing. He expected Dettlaff to be the second person to lecture him on the problems with it, to point out where his descriptions were inadequate or his wording was bad and complain about parts that didn't give him anything to make an illustration out of. And maybe a lot of editors and illustrators are like that - or maybe they're not, Geralt would have no idea. All he knows is, he was very wrong, and he's relieved about that. He's still expecting he'll eventually give Dettlaff and Regis something so bad they'll finally get harsh with him, but they've been so unbelievably kind up until now that Geralt's starting to think maybe they won't be as cruel as he fears when that inevitably happens. Regis cleans up Geralt's writing so well it nearly shines, Dettlaff brings its images perfectly to life, and they prop up his courage and self-belief with a green pen and set of paintbrushes respectively. The whole process has been so much better than Geralt ever expected.    </p><p>"We will, of course, delve into specifics. And I assure you, I look forward to discussing this chapter in more depth. However, there is another matter of critical importance that we must first address." Regis takes a sip of his tea, looking over the rim of the teacup with level of scrutiny that makes Geralt feel like a piece of writing. "I suspect - and correct me if I'm wrong, though I have a strong intuition I'm not - that you have been forgetting to eat again. Would I be right?" </p><p>"Hm." Geralt can't correct Regis. This morning he was consumed with trying to prepare for this meeting, and then with trying not to miss it. Last night he was consumed by the book. Between all that, consuming food fell off his radar. He's used to being hungry, so the feeling tends to blend into the background.  Geralt gives Regis a sheepish look, half expecting to get the green pen taken to his face for his response. "Yeah. Guess I did forget." </p><p>"Ah, Geralt. My poor dear self-neglecting writer. What shall I do with you? I suppose I should scold you, but first I shall procure you some food so you don't wither away during my lecture." Regis is looking at Geralt gently, and he's smiling, but there's something in his eyes that doesn't match up with the rest of his expression. Or maybe Geralt's imagining that, because social cues aren't his thing. Either way, this is why Regis is such a good editor. He doesn't just mark up Geralt's writing, doesn't just work through book stuff with him, doesn't just guide him through the publishing process. Regis uses what he calls "a holistic approach to ensure environmental conditions are conducive to the germination of ideas and the generation of successful and inspired writing", according to an email he sent Geralt towards the beginning of their time together that asked Geralt about his sleeping and eating habits in detail. Upon receiving Geralt's less than satisfactory answers, Regis replied with the shortest email Geralt's ever gotten from him: <em>Oh dear. Well, we'll fix that</em>. And, despite the fact that Geralt is arguably a lost cause, Regis has been trying his best to help him ever since. "Perhaps while I am fetching you sustenance, Dettlaff can show you his latest sketch of the Serpent of Foregate. His admirable perfectionism has yielded spectacular results. The details are simply exquisite." </p><p>"Thanks, Regis." Geralt's voice sounds smaller than he'd like, and he finds himself wishing he'd remembered to eat something so that Regis's intuition wouldn't have pinged him as incapable of taking care of himself. And while he's at it, he wishes he'd made himself look better. Now that he's in front of Dettlaff and Regis, he feels self-conscious about how run-down he looks. And how easy it would've been to trim his beard, chop the ends off his ragged hair, and dig out one of the nice outfits in the back of his closet. Geralt could've looked good for them, and there's something in him that really wants to look good for them. But, the book. That all would've been easy, if he hadn't been wholely devoured by the damn book. That, too, feels like it shouldn't be as hard to accomplish as it is. But Geralt's not an actual writer, so in the end, it makes a painful amount of sense that he's struggling. </p><p>Regis touches Dettlaff's back lightly when he stands up, and Dettlaff looks up at him with his sharp eyes completely softened. That softness changes his whole face. Regis squeezes Dettlaff's shoulder, and leaves him looking as pleased as he can appear without a facial expression. And then, as Regis walks around the table, he touches Geralt's back the same way. Geralt looks up and feels his own creepy yellow eyes doing the same thing as Dettlaff's before he can stop them. He's surprised by it, because that's not an expression his face naturally makes, but Regis's touch is so gentle and reassuring that Geralt feels loose-limbed and warm. Regis has a way of making him feel warm, and melted, and strangely off balance even when he's sitting down. Regis is talkative and gregarious and tactile, and those things should bother Geralt, but they don't. Geralt normally hates when people who aren't family or partners touch him, but Regis is different. Regis is different in a lot of ways. </p><p>"Geralt," Dettlaff says, once Regis has re-entered the café and immediately begun chatting with a barista. Geralt snaps his eyes back to the table, because he hadn't realized they were following Regis like lost puppies, but now that he's aware of it he's going to try and fail to pretend like that didn't happen. This is the first time Dettlaff's  spoken since the editor/illustrator couple arrived, but it doesn't feel like it is, because of how expressive his eyes are when he looks at things and reacts to events. "I have a serpent for you." </p><p>That sentence would be confusing and alarming coming from anyone but Dettlaff. And Dettlaff too, at first. Dettlaff has a strange way of speaking that takes some getting used to, something about his bluntness combined with his unusual phrasing. Every so often he says something that throws Geralt off, but Geralt thinks he's mostly figured Dettlaff out. Dettlaff has taken Regis's messenger bag and is going through it, pulling out papers and pens and a plastic bag filled with garlic cloves, and Geralt sips his tea while he waits for Dettlaff to find whatever he's looking for. The silence is comfortable. It used to be awkward, being alone with Dettlaff. Things are never awkward with Regis, because Regis is friendly and confident and fills every silence - for better or for worse. But Dettlaff is quiet and straight-faced and intimidating to people who don't know him, and tends to put the majority of the burden of conversations on whoever he's talking with. Geralt isn't great at conversations or talking. So Geralt had to navigate all that while wondering if Dettlaff found their solo interactions awkward as he did, or if he was the sole source of awkwardness there. Geralt's very relieved they seem to be past that phase in their relationship. </p><p>Finally, Dettlaff comes up with a sketchbook. He called his sketchbook and pencils "old-fashioned" during their first meeting, and Geralt didn't understand why, but he didn't want to look clueless by asking Dettlaff what the "new-fashioned" thing was. Geralt asked Ciri later, since he goes to her with all his trends and technology questions, and Ciri explained that a lot of illustrators do their work on computers before telling him about all these tools and computer programs and then showing him a painting she did without any paint. It looked nice, but Geralt appreciates Dettlaff using "old-fashioned" tools for his work on <em>Cryptids</em>. Dettlaff starts with charcoal pencil sketches, to plan the art out and check with Geralt whether he's on the right track, then does the final piece on really nice paper in vivid paint and gets it onto the computer using some super high-quality scanning machine. Geralt likes when Dettlaff shows him the pencil sketches in person, though, because there's something raw and personal about seeing them straight from his hand. Dettlaff opens the sketchbook and holds it out across the table to Geralt without looking at the page, since he somehow always manages to get the right one without flipping around. Geralt quickly puts his tea down and takes the sketchbook, hoping he doesn't end up spilling anything on it. </p><p>The Serpent of Foregate is beautiful. And terrifying. Its scales have the unusual raised-ridge edges that Geralt described, the spines down its back are as sharp and jagged as the fangs in its mouth, and its veins are visible under the thinner parts of its skin. It's incredible how much detail Dettlaff managed to pack into one drawing. Dettlaff watches Geralt with intimidating potency while he examines it. Geralt found Dettlaff's staring unnerving at first, since even quick looks from people make him uncomfortable and Dettlaff kicks the intensity up at least ten levels. Then Regis got him alone and told him that Dettlaff wasn't judging him or glaring at him, and that he examines things around him so carefully because they "provide him with information or inspiration or the joy of seeing something visually pleasant", and with his eye for details and beauty he can find something worth noting in just about anything. After that Geralt wasn't uncomfortable being stared at by Dettlaff, but he does sometimes feel a strange prickling on the back of his neck or wonder exactly what about him Dettlaff finds of note. Dettlaff says he likes seeing Geralt's reactions to his drawings because they give him "insight into the art", and since Geralt is notorious for his lack of visible reactions to things, he knows Dettlaff must be freakishly good at picking up small details. </p><p>"Looks great," Geralt says, because it does. He trails his index finger down the paper next to the Serpent, because he's getting the instinct to touch all the distinct textures on the creature, but he knows they'd just feel like pencil on paper and he doesn't want to mess the drawing up."Scales are perfect." </p><p>"Thank you." Dettlaff lets Geralt look at the sketchbook for as long as he wants, and seems satisfied at how long it takes Geralt to hand it back. "Their shape was a challenge, but I believe I overcame it through creative shading with several different types of pencils. I have never drawn scales with that shape before." </p><p>"Looks like you draw them all the time." Geralt is amazed at how good the scales look for Dettlaff's first try. The shape is challenging, to the point that he struggled to describe it in writing. The ones in the sketch looked like they came straight out of a black and white photograph. The thing Geralt finds most impressive about Dettlaff's art isn't its quality, though that blows his mind with each new piece he sees, but the skill and vision it takes for him to draw and paint things he's never seen before. To bring life to creatures that don't even exist. Meanwhile, Geralt hasn't mastered stringing words about them together. "Serpent's really realistic. 'Specially for a monster nobody's got photos of." </p><p>"Your descriptions were vivid," Dettlaff says. He closes the sketchbook and slides it into Regis's bag, then begins to re-pack the bag with the papers and pens and garlic cloves. "As with all your cryptids, I need no photo references." </p><p>"Glad to hear it. The point of cryptids is there isn't any photo references," Geralt says. "If anybody got a good photo of one of these monsters, I'd have to throw that section out." </p><p>"I hope you wouldn't," Dettlaff says, looking quickly up at Geralt with an expression so serious it's almost concerned. Geralt sometimes forgets that Dettlaff doesn't do jokes. He just doesn't pick up on them. He doesn't pick up on sarcasm or dry humor or irony either, which was a big conversation barrier they had to get past. Geralt's seen Regis tease Dettlaff a bit, but he nudged Dettlaff with his elbow first in a way that seemed to indicate <em>I'm about to make a joke</em> and it was clear he was only allowed to do it because Dettlaff knows him so well. Once Geralt figured out Dettlaff always says exactly what he means, and takes whatever's said to him at face value, he appreciated how straightforward it is to communicate with him. No deception, no ambiguity, and no overthinking. Dettlaff's the first person Geralt's ever met who seems like nearly everything he says can be trusted. </p><p>"I wouldn't," Geralt promises Dettlaff. "Spent too much time on all these chapters to throw them out." </p><p>"Good." Dettlaff sounds genuinely reassured, and Geralt feels a little bad for accidentally messing with him. "I enjoy your writing. I enjoy your descriptions of the beasts more than I would enjoy a photo of them." </p><p>Geralt blinks, and his face feels so warm that he's glad he doesn't visibly blush. That thing Dettlaff does, with the blunt honesty and the lack of shame and the weird phrasing, doesn't just throw Geralt off. Sometimes it flusters him. And Geralt isn't the kind of guy to get flustered, which is how he knows that being able to trust what someone says really gets to him. "Hm. Thanks." </p><p>Regis sits back down at the table across from Geralt, and if Geralt ever startled at things, he'd jump out of his skin. Regis nudges a plate over to Geralt, and Geralt looks in confusion from Regis to the chicken sandwich that's appeared in front of him before he puts it all together. Talking to Dettlaff that feels like being pulled into a strange bubble of some sort, where time and social rules work differently and something magnetic keeps the interaction in orbit. Geralt mumbles a <em>thanks Regis</em> as he unceremoniously stuffs half the sandwich in his mouth before he can think too much about that magnetic thing. Once he tastes it, he realizes he's really hungry. Hungry enough that he doesn't know how it slipped by him for a whole day. The good thing about shoving a giant piece of chicken sandwich into his face like a half-starved animal is that neither of his companions expect him to talk, and that outweighs the awkwardness of sitting there chewing for what feels like an eternity and hoping he didn't look too much like a feral wolf tearing into a carcass. </p><p>In the interim, Regis leans over to place a gentle kiss on Dettlaff's cheek and smiles as Dettlaff easily turns his face to receive it. Dettlaff doesn't seem like a touchy or affectionate person, but how easily he accepts touches and affection from Regis seems to say otherwise. Or, at least, he's touchy and affectionate for the right people. Regis is always touchy and affectionate, but there's a different dimension it takes on when he's focusing his attentions on Dettlaff. This fondness that's a little more tender than the general fondness that Regis regards so many other people with. Regis and Dettlaff's relationship is sweet, and it's obvious in every one of their interactions how secure and satisfying it is. Geralt usually doesn't like watching couples together, but there's something about their relationship that's so easy and comfortable that it feels good to be around it. With how much instability and loneliness Geralt's experienced throughout his life, it's comforting to see Dettlaff and Regis's bond. He kind of wishes he could feel their bond too. </p><p>But that's a strange thought. Creepy, maybe. So Geralt brushes it off and eats the other half of his sandwich. </p><p>"Ah. What a lovely day," Regis comments, and tilts his head to feel the sun on the side of his face. It's rising higher in the sky, getting brighter, and the changing angle is starting to cast rays under their nice shady canopy of trees. It's not so bad, now that Geralt's getting re-accustomed to the outdoors. And to people. A light breeze has started up, swishing through the leaves and flapping the corner of Regis's stack of papers, and that keeps the intensifying heat from getting uncomfortable. "A fine afternoon for an enriching discussion of literature and art. Pleasant weather becomes even more pleasant still with good company, and I daresay you both qualify. Now, I presume that in my absence, the two of you conferred regarding Dettlaff's serpent. Pardon me if I interrupted -" Regis pauses, the upturned lilt in his voice prompting a correction, and when one doesn't come he nods and continues. "Splendid. Then let us delve into my notes on Chapter 4. I have been anticipating sharing them with you, Geralt, so do indulge any eagerness on my part. Do you have any questions before we begin?" </p><p>Geralt wants to ask <em>what about me makes good company</em>, but doesn't. Instead he says, "Notes would be good." </p><p>"Per your usual preferences, I will begin with an overview of my thoughts on this section and follow it with preparation for the specifics I will send along later for your review. And your approval and return to me, should you wish me to take the particulars off your hands." Regis flips to the back of the first page, which is covered from top to bottom in green pen. Geralt knows the color is supposed to make him feel "nurtured", but the lengthy list of cursive notes makes him feel nervous anyway. Regis knows his "ponderings, musings, ramblings and extended journeys of thought" are hard for Geralt to follow, and does his best to condense them - well, condense them as far as anything can get with Regis - but seeing their hefty original form is intimidating. "Fear not, my dear supernatural specialist. I will admit to spilling much ink over these pages, but a good deal of it dried in the service of compliments. The rest went to assorted observations, suggestions, points for consideration, and odds and ends. I found no major structural or stylistic issues, which will simplify life for both of us." </p><p>"Sounds good," Geralt replies. He's still confused how there aren't any "major structural or stylistic issues", since he'd thought the whole chapter was shit, but Regis knows this stuff a lot better than he does. Maybe he just figured it was shit because he doesn't know how to tell if a piece of writing is properly structured and styled. That makes him feel more confident about the chapter, and less confident about his structure and style knowledge, which is a tradeoff. Geralt sips his tea, trying to get in the state of mind to follow everything Regis said his ink dried into, then nods. "Fire away."</p><p>Regis, as directed, fires away. And keeps firing. The good thing is, he was right about most of it being compliments. A lot of the rest isn't going to matter too much, since the smaller things are just going to end up back in Regis's hands, but Geralt figures it's polite to pretend they may at some point have a conversation about minute details. Regis has this habit of gesturing more and more enthusiastically as he talks about literature, and sometimes he re-enacts little bits of the stories, which gets funny when they involve Geralt's cryptids. He only gets a couple seconds of an Ozzrel impersonation, but it's enough to make his week. After an indeterminate time of explaining and gesticulating and speechmaking and page flipping, complete with continuous usage of the green pen, Regis gathers the papers up and taps them on the table to even the scattered edges out. </p><p>"And there we have it," Regis announces. "Firing complete." </p><p>"Thanks. Sounds like you did a lot of good work. I'll keep all that in mind when I look back at the chapter, and read your email." Geralt nods, then tries to imitate that thing Regis does where he looks thoughtful by sipping his tea. It doesn't work for him the way it works for Regis. "Dettlaff, got any notes for me?" </p><p>"Continue as you are," Dettlaff says, in that wonderfully deep and smooth voice. "Both of you." </p><p>"With pleasure, Dettlaff." Regis smiles, and lifts Dettlaff's hand up to give the back of it a quick kiss. "I would say the three of us have fallen into a comfortable dynamic in our working relationship, and will maintain it happily if both of you desire. That is, Geralt, if you hold similar sentiments. I am, as always, open to hearing your feedback regarding our continuing collaboration." </p><p>"Yeah. I feel the same." Geralt rearranges his face into something like a smile, because it's not easy for him to make one, but he wants to be smiling at Regis and Dettlaff now. He's not good at words, but he wants to convey what a smile would convey. </p><p>"Then it's decided. We shall proceed according to the current status quo." Regis taps the stack of green-marked papers on the table in a definitive way.</p><p>Geralt's eyes go to the papers, and then immediately - but a little too late - he starts thinking of ways <em>he</em> shouldn't continue as <em>he</em> is. For example, he should start writing faster. And writing better. He should give Regis more polished drafts to look at, and give Dettlaff more coherent descriptions to work from. Regis is used to working with people that have a much higher skill level than Geralt does, meaning he's having to put in a lot more effort on Geralt's project than other ones he's worked on, which makes Geralt feel guilty. Dettlaff is probably used to his writers taking up less of his time, and while he doesn't seem to mind that right now, Geralt's not sure if he's hiding that he actually does mind or if he'll start to mind as this whole thing drags on. He knows the editor and illustrator are comparing him to authors they've worked with, because it'd be impossible for them not to, and there's no way he's not coming up short on pretty much all fronts. Geralt knows all this, so he should be trying harder to fix it. And he should probably tell them that now, because he may have just made them think he believes his performance is acceptable. </p><p>But before Geralt can say anything, Regis picks up his tea with a flourish. "As we are all agreed and satisfied, let us enjoy the our tea and the lovely weather before we adjourn. I'd say that, amidst our ongoing efforts, we deserve a moment of leisure." </p><p>They finish their tea together. Geralt drops out of the conversation, not having anything add once Regis starts chattering about an article he read in a medical journal last night. Dettlaff nods along, half looking at Regis and half looking at the mountain landscape drawing he's started in his sketchbook. Their individual and group dynamics work out, because Regis doesn't require a whole lot of input. His tendency to give monologues seems to stem from a mixture of thinking out loud, sharing something he's interested in with people, and liking to hear himself talk. Geralt also likes listening to Regis talk, because he has a nice calming voice and he's very eloquent despite the way his trains of thought can become hard to follow, so he enjoys Regis's monologues even though he's only interested in the content of them about half the time. </p><p>Half of the time isn't a bad percentage, considering how much of the content goes over Geralt's head. Regis holds two doctorates, in botanical medicine and philosophy. He used to be a professor and researcher at the University of Dillingen and "a few others, after gaining the urge to wander but not losing the need to teach", which makes a lot of sense to anyone who's been in his company for five minutes. Regis isn't up his own ass about that, though it'd be justifiable if he was. Geralt wasn't even aware of his background until they bumped into a Fairy Lights Press intern who addressed him as "Dr. Terzieff-Godefroy" and Geralt asked <em>what kind of doctor are you?</em> Regis chuckled and managed to convey the answer in a self-deprecating manner, which is impressive considering what it was: an accomplished and respected academic and expert in both philosophy and botanical medicine, who contributed significantly to scholarship and teaching in both of those disciplines for almost three decades. And then, when Regis was at the top of two fields he was passionate about at the height of two careers he loved, he walked away from it all to become an entry-level book editor. Geralt figured Regis had to be out of his mind to do something like that, and he temporarily lost control of his mouth and said so out loud. Regis promised he'd explain that perplexing decision "eventually, if you wish to hear the tale, but not now" because it's "a long and complex story with significant nuance and baring of the soul". Just like that, Geralt got even more fascinated with Regis. And he'd already been too fascinated with Regis for his own good. </p><p>"Well, I shan't trap you both here for time immemorial. Nor shall I talk your ears fully off; I believe partially off shall suffice for today," Regis says, after an indefinite period of time, finally wrapping up what he'd warned Geralt and Dettlaff at the outset might become an "extensive oration on the merits and drawbacks of experimental use of cypripedium nosferatus petals in vitality restoration elixirs". His warning came to fruition. "Geralt, we shall leave you to ponder my notes and Dettlaff's art, and strategize what next you will write to inspire another round of both of those." </p><p>Geralt would be fine with the trapping and the talking. Judging from the position of the sun in the sky it's later than he'd thought, since he tends to lose track of time when he's with Regis and Dettlaff, but he justifies how long he hangs out with them by telling himself that it's his job. Communicating with his editor and illustrator is a mandatory part of how he now makes his living. He probably doesn't have to spend as much time with the couple as he does, true, but it doesn't hurt. In order to produce a halfway decent book Geralt needs to have conversations with his editor and illustrator, look at his editor's notes and his illustrator's art, think about his conversations with his editor and illustrator, repeatedly look back at his editor's notes and his illustrator's art, and constantly think about his editor and illustrator. That's normal. His editor and illustrator a big part of his book, so, he's thinking about their contributions and their conversations and <em>them</em> a normal amount. </p><p>"Yeah. Guess it's about time to wrap up," Geralt says, even though he doesn't want to. He likes being around Dettlaff and Regis, and there's so few people he actually likes being around that it's kind of a miracle when he finds them. But the couple is supportive, kind, helpful, and nice to be around. Geralt always feels a lot better after he meets with them. Like maybe his attempts at being a writer aren't as pathetic as they seem, maybe his writing isn't as blatantly awful as it appears, and maybe the air of semi-competence he tries to project over his complete cluelessness isn't as transparent as it feels. Like Regis's editing can fix his words up enough to make them deserve the paper they'll be printed on, and Dettlaff's drawings can make the book worth people's time to finish. Like the three of them can patch together something that anyone would give a damn about. All three of them, as a team. </p><p>Regis gets to his feet slowly, groaning as he does, then muttering something about stiff joints and becoming "a creaky old codger" as he stretches. Dettlaff gathers up his sketchbook and Regis's papers and writing implements and packs them back up in Regis's messenger bag, standing up and draping the bag carefully over his partner's shoulder as soon as he's done stretching. Regis instinctively holds the bag's strap with one hand, and Dettlaff's hand with the other. The movements are so natural that Regis doesn't think about it, deeply ingrained habits that come from how he's gotten used to having both things there. </p><p>"Thank you," Dettlaff says, looking so deeply into Geralt's eyes that Geralt feels like he's getting pulled into something. "I have enjoyed our time together." </p><p>"Enjoyed it too," Geralt replies. His voice sounds strange to his ears, uneven with some tone he doesn't recognize. "Thank you. Both of you. For, uh. Everything." </p><p>"The pleasure is ours." Regis smiles. "Shall we walk you out?" </p><p>"Gonna stick around for a while. Think about stuff." Geralt's got a lot on his mind. "Notes, and art. Think about your notes and art." </p><p>"A wise strategy. When one finds a good place to think, and a need to do so, it is best to put down roots until the thoughts run their course. Or one is removed due to the arrival of closing time." Regis nods sagely. "As always, Dettlaff and I are only an email or a call away - a call, I assume, I do know you hate emails." </p><p>Geralt stands up too. He's not well-versed in social conventions, but somewhere along the line he got the impression that it was polite to bid people farewell at the same height, so he always does. Or, close to the same height, which is rare for a guy Geralt's size. Dettlaff's taller than Geralt and equally broadly built, and Regis is only slightly shorter than him despite being more slender. Geralt likes that. Regis lets go of the bag strap to clasp Geralt's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly, and then takes his hand. Geralt feels that same strange warmth and tingling bloom in both places. He looks into Regis's dark eyes, his limbs feeling oddly weak at the comforting look in them. Dettlaff takes Geralt's other hand, forming a circle with the three of them, and now Geralt has to look down at the five scattered leaves on the table because the comfort is overwhelming with both of them holding onto him like this. Regis gives Geralt's hand a firm shake. His voice sounds like the look in his eyes when he says, "Dettlaff and I know you're working hard. Know that we both admire you, and take care of yourself." </p><p>Geralt's hands still tingle, but feel so cold, once Regis and Dettlaff release them and walk into the café together. Geralt sits down hard in his chair once their backs are out of sight, his skin feeling raw and vulnerable from the provision and then removal of the contact. He's not the type to get lonely, and not the type to enjoy being touched, but he must have developed some uncharacteristic feeling of deprivation while cooped up in his home for so long. Ciri frequently hugs Geralt and holds his hand, but until his book team couple came into his life, there'd only been one person besides Ciri who'd touched him within the past several years - which only happens every few months, and really should happen less, because Geralt would be a lot better off if it happened less. He'd be best off if it <em>never</em> happened, but he just can't stick to what's good for him. Now, though, there's Dettlaff and Regis. The touches are so casual and effortless on their parts, especially Regis's, that Geralt is confused by how much they <em>matter</em>. </p><p>The teacup in front of Geralt is empty, and so is the sandwich plate next to it. He tries to be inconspicuous about that, hoping someone from the café won't notice and kick him out. He doesn't want to go home yet. The afternoon is warm, the air has filled with the scent of fresh pastries, and the bird that's started chirping in one of the trees above him sounds much more chipper than the ones in the trees of his isolated forest up in the hills. Geralt closes his eyes, feels the soft breeze on his sun-deprived pallid skin and in his frayed hair, and does the opposite of what he told Regis: for his own sake, he tries not to think. </p><p>After Geralt's been sitting there for a bit, basking in the light and breeze like a lazy cat, he hears footsteps approaching him. He cracks his eyes open and turns to the source of them, which turns out to be a barista. He expects to be shooed off, but instead, she places a fresh cup of green tea in front of him. Geralt tilts his head, figuring she's got the wrong person. But then she says, "Your friends asked me to bring this out to you. Sideburns and sweater." </p><p>Geralt blinks at the tea, then the barista. He doesn't get out a <em>thanks</em> before she's gone. He wishes he could tell Dettlaff and Regis <em>thanks</em>, but they're gone too. There's something that burrows deep into his chest when he takes his first sip of the astringent tea, a warmth that isn't coming from the hot liquid. It's coming from how thoughtful it was of the two of them to take care of him this way. Geralt knows what Regis said about "environmental conditions" being part of his editing philosophy, and therefore part of his job, but the couple didn't need to go this extra step to take care of him. And yet they did. They always do. </p><p>It's a long drive back to Geralt's house, and that gives him more time to think. He stuffs down what he <em>wants</em> to think about, and opts for what he <em>needs</em> to think about. Which is the few critical notes Regis gave him, about the slight unevenness in way he built suspense regarding the potentially cryptid-related disappearances and his habit of starting too many sentences with <em>Then</em>, plus the background for the email that's probably already in his inbox waiting for him to sign off on the changes. After that it's the art Dettlaff showed him, the Serpent of Foregate with its spines and unusual scales, and what he can glean from it about his descriptions. As the buildings and smooth-paved streets of the city give way to the sloped and bumpy asphalt of the winding back roads, Geralt does what Regis told him and strategizes about a few things: upcoming chapters, some stubborn pieces of wording, and - fuck, rewrites of those five pages he accidentally stuck onto Chapter 4. Plus a plea to Ciri to help him make sure that fuck-up doesn't happen again. </p><p>By the time Geralt's steering his old beat-up truck up his forest house's steep and treacherous gravel driveway, overshadowed by the comfortingly familiar thick arches of the leafy trees, he's developed a next-steps plan. It requires shutting himself inside for probably two weeks or so, but that won't be so bad. He's dealt with a lot of sun and human contact today. He needs to build his energy up, since he has a feeling it won't be too long before Dettlaff and Regis pull him out into the world again. </p><p>Geralt finds his mouth twitching in a tiny little smile when he thinks about that. He's just gotten home - and it's good to be home - but he's already looking forward to seeing his editor and illustrator again. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ciri lets herself into Geralt's home office while he's in the middle of typing up the details of a gruesome Vigilosaur attack and says, "You're not wearing your glasses." </p><p>Geralt grunts, not looking up from where he's glancing back and forth between the notebook he handwrites in and the computer he's struggling to type his draft into. He's been at it for two hours, and barely gotten anywhere. His handwriting is messy, the dull pencil is smudged, and he's a bad typist. "Don't really need them." </p><p>"Right. You look very comfortable hunched over squinting with your nose an inch from the screen." Ciri comes over to Geralt's desk and starts searching it, lifting piles of crinkled papers and nudging aside dead pens and moving empty tea mugs. There's a lot of those. Ciri makes a disgusted noise at the stained rings inside them and the drops that have dried on the bottom, which gives a general idea of how long they've been sitting there, and lines them up on the windowsill as she keeps scanning Geralt's workspace. Geralt can hear her taking her time setting them down, and the corner of his lips twitch in a smile reserved for a rare few people when he realizes she's trying hard not to disturb any of his plants. He has a lot of plants. "You lost them again, didn't you, old man?" </p><p>Geralt sighs. He uses an uncapped half-dried out pink highlighter with a ball of fluff on the end of it, one he borrowed from Ciri's stock of school supplies and then ruined so badly she didn't want it back, to mark where he is on the notebook page. He's learned the hard way that if he loses his place, it'll take him forever to find it again. Then he slowly and jerkily creaks the seat of his chair to the side, because the rusted old mechanisms that make thing spin need oiling much more often than Geralt's willing to do it. "Might as well tell me what you want. But if it's expensive, ask Emhyr." </p><p>"I just wanted to drop by." Ciri tries to pretend she's looking out the big window that Geralt's desk faces, smiling peacefully like she's enjoying the singing of the birds in the forest of trees surrounding their isolated little house on the top of a hill, but Geralt's not fooled. He can see her eyes flickering down to the grainy screen of his clunky computer monitor. He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow at her, and she knows she's caught. Ciri sighs, giving up the act. "Alright, I wanted to see if you'll <em>finally</em> show me something you've written." </p><p>What Geralt's written today is terrible. Absolute shit. He doesn't even want to show it to Regis, and Regis has seen his barely coherent first draft of the Serpent of Foregate chapter that didn't deserve the drawing Dettlaff did for it. He hasn't shown Ciri any part of his book so far, and the garbage he's produced today sure isn't the stuff to start with. Geralt winces, ex-bodyguard reflexes kicking in as he snaps the notebook shut and whisks it over to block the screen. "I'll buy you something expensive." </p><p>"Come on, Geralt," Ciri wheedles. She frowns petulantly. She huffs irritably. She whines impatiently. She bounces on her feet slightly. She acts exactly like the slightly impetuous seventeen year old she is. Geralt's used to that act by now, after seven years of parenting her, and it's nothing compared to the banshee-screaming temper tantrums she used to throw. Geralt re-crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, not budging. His daughter has been headstrong since the day he adopted her, but he's never bent to her demands when she pulls this bratty act and he won't start now. Ciri can tell the nagging's not going to work, so she switches to her Plan B tactic: guilt. "You've shut yourself in here for days, leaving me to fend for myself in the wild without so much as a single hug. You <em>owe</em> me at least a few paragraphs." </p><p>"How 'bout some art?" Geralt compromises. "Illustrator just sent me a painting of the Hellhound. Decided he wanted to redo the first one." </p><p>"Alright. But I <em>will</em> expect something to read soon." Ciri gives Geralt one more firm look, the look that reminds him way too much of her other father, and then waits until he creaks his chair back around to perch precariously on one of the rickety arms. Geralt minimizes the word processor before she can see anything and goes into his email inbox - hunched over and squinting an inch from the screen, damn it, she's right - and opens the email he got from Dettlaff two hours ago. Geralt clicks on the attached file, then clicks on it again, then frowns when it doesn't open and clicks again, until he hears an exaggerated sigh from Ciri and remembers he has to double click it. He keeps forgetting that. "Geralt, do you really not know how to open a picture attached to an email?" </p><p>"Got it open before. Got a lot of them open before," Geralt replies defensively. They wait for a few seconds, listening to the rustling of the leaves outside the window, as they wait for the picture to download. Their internet connection is painfully slow, with the way they're out in the middle of nowhere, and their cell phone service isn't much better. Ciri complains about that, since apparently she's too popular for a slow phone, but Geralt would die before moving closer to civilization. Finally, the big, high-quality art piece finishes crawling its way through their weak signal. "See. Got it. Just... forget sometimes. The extra click." </p><p>"Sometimes I find it hard to believe you're forty-five," Ciri says, wearily, and shakes her head. </p><p>"Tell me 'bout it," Geralt mumbles. He knows Ciri's implying that he's too young to be this bad at technology, but he's wondering when he got this old. </p><p>They have to wait another few seconds for Geralt's ancient, constantly frozen computer to open the file. But after an eternity, the large fully-colored painting of the Hellhound pops up onscreen. The massive barghest is the stuff of nightmares, just like it should be: its rotting fangs are glistening with bloody saliva between snarling lips, its glowing green eyes are demonically empty, and its powerful muscles ripple under its mangy and torn black coat.</p><p>Ciri gasps in delight. "Oh, that's amazing! Those claws - the tips are so sharp! And the teeth! You can see every snag in those jagged breaks in the enamel." </p><p>Yeah. Dettlaff's good," Geralt replies. He remembers something he's heard people say when talking about art, and he always thought it sounded pretty smart, so he says, "It's all in the details." </p><p>"They're good details," Ciri says. Geralt feels pleased that he got away with not knowing the first thing about how to talk about art. He gets the feeling Dettlaff's easing into teaching him, trying to get some of the language across without sounding like he's instructing a five year old, but Geralt's still not really learning. He regrets that slowness when Ciri says, "It's brilliant how Dettlaff used color context to make the same shade of red read so differently on the bhargest's teeth and in its fur, but still serve to provide a sense of unity between multiple areas of the painting. And it's very delightful how the positioning of its tail breaks the rules of scene composition and yet somehow gives a satisfying sense of balance."</p><p>"Sure is," Geralt replies, not sure how it slipped his mind that Ciri's shockingly expensive snobby private school education includes university-level classes with names like "Symbolism of Scene Composition in Visual Art" and "Color Theory for Photorealistic Paintings". And that's in addition to things like "Comparative Study of Quantitative Analysis Methods", "Advanced Application of Rhetorical Techniques", and "Allegory in Classic Works of Nilfgaardian Literature". Those fancy classes are why Emhyr pulled Ciri out of the school Geralt had her in and used his influence to get her enrolled at Ard Carraigh Imperial Academy instead: because "Cirilla requires a far higher quality of education than the dismal waste of time she has been subjected to thus far", and Ciri's asshole biological father likes making unilateral decisions that upend their lives. The problem is, Emhyr always financially funds those decisions, and they end up making Ciri's life better, so he keeps getting away with it. Ciri's good grades in those fancy classes at that fancy school have all but guaranteed her admission to the best universities on the continent - combined, of course, with her intelligence, work ethic, and stubbornness. Ciri's spent the last few months agonizing over which of those top universities she'd want to go to, running through pros/cons lists and going on campus tours and meeting with important people in admissions offices who are begging her to apply to their university and waving scholarship offers under her nose. Ciri often makes Geralt feel dumb, but he likes that. It means she's smart and worldly and is getting the education he never did. And Geralt wants his daughter to be better than he is, and has more than he has. He's proud, but still a little embarrassed when he can't keep up with her. </p><p>"Tell Dettlaff his work is very, very good," Ciri says, still delighted by the Hellhound. </p><p>That's what Geralt tells Dettlaff already, because he doesn't know how to talk about art, but he nods. "Sure will." </p><p>"You know, you haven't told me much about Dettlaff," Ciri comments, as Geralt closes the picture and then closes his email before he can see if there's anything unread in it. He hates the damn inbox. He likes pretending to be a writer - that's what he's doing, pretending, since he's not a real writer by any means - but he hates how many emails it involves. He might've just stayed a metalworker if he knew writing came with emails. "And you haven't told me much about your editor - what was his name?" </p><p>"Regis," Geralt says. At least, that's what Regis told Geralt to call him when they met, because his name is something like Emiel Regis Something Something Seven More Names. Not that Geralt Roger Eric Du Haute-Bellegarde has room to judge. </p><p>"Right." The arm of the chair wobbles as Ciri hops off it, and Geralt reaches out pre-emptively in case he needs to catch a falling piece. Or a falling daughter. He really needs this damn thing replaced. "You should tell me about them." </p><p>Geralt thinks. He doesn't know where to start. Dettlaff and Regis are a lot. In personality, looks, talents, and quirks. It'd be hard to sum either of them up quickly, not without leaving nearly everything out, and that's not even starting on their relationship. Geralt starts with the basics. "Dettlaff's my illustrator, and Regis is my editor." He gets a snort from Ciri that sounds like a wordless version of <em>no shit</em>, and frowns. He's good at describing monsters, not people. This is why he could never be a real writer. Geralt tries again. "Dettlaff's... he's a little grim, kind of dark, always wears black. Looks scary, has this death glare that could melt holes through steel. Knows his way around a sketchbook. Regis... talks a lot. Can barely get a word in edgewise. He's nice, though. Smartest man I've ever met. Goes through green pens like nobody's business. Has mutton chops." </p><p>"Mutton chops?" Ciri asks, snorting again, but this time in amusement. She's rummaging around his desk again, but since she's run out of surface mess to sift through, she's now opening the bottom drawer on the left side of it. "Like, the partial beard?" </p><p>"Yep." Geralt pictures Regis's face. It's smiling. Regis is usually smiling. Geralt has to try not to do the lips-twitch smile while picturing it, which is strange, because just picturing someone shouldn't be enough to make him smile. Regis must smile so damn much that it's contagious. "Eccentric guy. Used to be a professor, philosopher, and... medical botanist? Not sure what it's called. Involves a lot of work with plants, though." </p><p>"Sounds like the two of you - well, I couldn't guess if you'd get along." Ciri roots through the drawer quickly, pushing aside crumpled up sticky notes and filled-up notebooks and more dead pens, then nudges it shut with her foot and wrinkles her forehead before moving to the one above it. "He likes plants, but he talks a lot. It's a toss-up. But I'm assuming if you were annoyed by him you wouldn't sound so fond of him." </p><p>Geralt does something that feels like mentally stumbling over a tree branch. He didn't realize he was sounding <em>fond</em> of Regis. Maybe he's not, and Ciri's messing with him. She likes to joke about Geralt "being sweet on" people and "carrying a flame for" people and all kinds of other cheesy euphemisms to poke fun at the fact that Geralt hasn't dated anyone in four years. He hasn't found anyone who would date him - or anyone he'd inflict himself upon - since his last ex-girlfriend Yennefer stopped their shopping cart during a disastrous trip to the grocery store, cut off their argument by listing the top five reasons she was dumping Geralt, and then left him embarrassed and single in the middle of the produce aisle. But maybe Geralt is sounding fond of Regis. He wouldn't say he's fond of Regis, but if somebody asked him if he was fond of Regis, he wouldn't say he wasn't fond of Regis. So maybe he wouldn't <em>say</em> he's fond of Regis, but he's not <em>not</em> fond of Regis. The man just smiles so damn much. He does talk a lot, but it's nice to listen to. Nobody could be un-fond of him. </p><p>That's not something Geralt wants to examine too much, so he doesn't complain when Ciri slams a drawer and then makes a noise of triumph and turns to shove Geralt's glasses onto his face. He frowns, wrinkles his nose, wiggles his face a little, tries to get comfortable with them on. The frames are heavy. Ciri picked them out for him, and said they're stylish. She also said they complemented his scar, the ugly jagged thing running down the left side of his face that she freely comments on and most other people pretend they don't notice while staring at it in a way that makes it obvious they want to ask about it. Geralt's never been stylish a day in his life, and he's not sure the best choice for a forty-five year old man is something his seventeen year old daughter thinks is stylish. But he didn't like any other pairs either, so he gave in to Ciri. Geralt gives in to Ciri on pretty much everything that doesn't involve negative consequences, which really undermines his attempts to be a stern dad at other times. </p><p>Not the book, though. Geralt still won't give in to her demands to read the draft of his book.</p><p>Ciri's looking at Geralt and smirking, clearly feeling proud of herself for finding the glasses and sneaking up on him with them. Geralt doesn't know how she managed to sneak up on him. He must've been more distracted than he thought. He doesn't want to think about why the topic of Regis distracted him so much. Geralt sighs. "Thanks, Ciri." </p><p>"What would you do without me," Ciri says, shaking her head.</p><p>"Don't know," Geralt says honestly. </p><p>And Geralt genuinely doesn't know what he'd do without his daughter in his life, which is kind of funny, because he never expected to be a dad and didn't particularly want to be one. But then Ciri got tossed into his life by an unexpected legal guardianship appointment from a couple he'd bodyguarded, and Geralt couldn't do anything <em>but</em> adopt her. Ciri's grandparents had just died in a mansion fire, and they'd had custody of her because of what happened to her parents when she was five: her mother got killed in a boating accident caused by a freak storm, and her father used the coma he ended up in from that same accident as a convenient jumping-off point to ditch Ciri. Emhyr woke up, pointed at the living will that transferred custody of his daughter to Calanthe and Eist, then blatantly ignored the provision that allowed him to take custody back if he woke up and pretended he couldn't do anything but walk away from her. Leave her. Ciri was only ten years old when Geralt was offered guardianship of her, and she'd already known so much death and loss and abandonment that Geralt couldn't let her stay abandoned. Couldn't let her go through what he'd gone through.</p><p>"You'd be a hermit," Ciri accuses, squinting at all the smudges and dust on the lenses of Geralt's glasses before plucking them back off his face and taking hold of one of his sleeves to use as a cleaning cloth. "You'd never come down from this hill. You'd abandon civilization and live as a feral hunter-gatherer in the forest." </p><p>"Probably," Geralt admits. That sounds like a good life. </p><p>"You're lucky to have me. I make your life so much easier," Ciri declares, and places his glasses back onto his face.</p><p>The lucky part is true, and the <em>easier</em> part is debatable. Geralt loves Ciri, but it's debatable. She certainly didn't make his life easier when he first adopted her. For one thing, he was flat broke. Ciri's supposedly rich grandparents had squandered their fortune and were deep in debt, leaving her with nothing, and her genuinely rich father had up and disappeared several years back. Geralt was left to provide for his new child alone, and it turned out a child cost a lot more than he had expected one to. Geralt and Ciri had some rough times, with Geralt barely making rent on a run-down moldy one-room apartment and skipping meals when he needed to buy Ciri new clothes, but they got through it. Geralt had to retire from bodyguarding after a bullet fucked up his right knee when a total shitshow left him shielding Calanthe with his body to save her life - the act that made her and Eist decide it was a good idea to potentially appoint legal guardianship of their granddaughter to their bodyguard - so he got a job as a metalworker and worked a lot longer hours than he wanted to. Maybe all that is why Ciri became so interested in the monsters from Geralt's stories: they were scary, and she was used to fear, but this time the scary things couldn't hurt her. </p><p>"Yeah?" Geralt says, and decides to mess with Ciri a little. "Care to tell me how?" </p><p>"Yes," Ciri says, and pokes Geralt hard in the chest. "I am an absolute <em>delight</em>. And you need joy in your life." </p><p>Ciri's right about that. Geralt doesn't feel joy, never has, but the feeling he gets when his daughter is happy or something good happens to her is probably the closest he'll ever get. Geralt can admit he needed joy badly when she first came into his life, but he'll never admit to anyone that at first he got the opposite. It was uncomfortable, and he was filled with constant anxiety. Geralt had never had to be soft with anything before, never had to be gentle with anyone, and a ten year old girl wasn't a great place to start. Ciri was so small and so vulnerable and Geralt was afraid he'd break her, like any wrong parenting decision he made would fuck up her childhood development or give her lifelong trauma. Well, more trauma than she already had. And since he didn't know how to parent, every decision he made felt like a bad one. Geralt was awkward with the tiny person that needed a stable living environment and emotional support, felt guilty that he was doing a bad job of providing those, and wished he had an example of how a child should be raised. Geralt knew firsthand how not to raise one: abandon them at six years old and let them bounce around foster families for a decade until they got tired of never living in the same place for more than a few years and ran away to hide out until they were an adult. But he didn't know how <em>to</em> raise one, and didn't have anyone to turn to for help. </p><p>They got through it, though. Geralt would've done anything for Ciri, and did everything he could for her, except for one thing: try to contact Emhyr. Geralt didn't want a cent of the man's money. He didn't think Emhyr would give them anything, so it seemed pointless. And even if Emhyr did, it'd just create some kind of connection between them and someone Geralt didn't want anywhere near Ciri. Geralt's pride wouldn't allow him to crawl to Emhyr, and his protectiveness sure wouldn't. Emhyr ditched Ciri, and Geralt didn't give a shit why, because he assumed it meant Emhyr never loved her. Turns out maybe he should've crawled to Emhyr right off the bat, because he was wrong about that <em>never loved her</em> part, and they got stuck with him later anyway. </p><p>"You're a little terror," Geralt says, and Ciri beams. He knows what his daughter takes as a compliment. </p><p>"It sounds like things are going very well," Ciri says, and adjusts Geralt's slightly crooked glasses. Geralt crinkles up his nose to throw them off balance again, and Ciri bops him on the top of the head in a scolding gesture before fixing them. Geralt decides he should probably stop teasing her now. "I said, it sounds like things are going very well, <em>aren't they, Geralt?</em>" </p><p>"Yup. Sure are," Geralt says. It's not a lie, because Ciri didn't specify what fell under the umbrella of "things". So if Geralt chooses to interpret "things" as meaning his working relationshp with Regis and Dettlaff, which they <em>were</em> just talking about, then it's a perfectly valid approach to the question. Then again, he'd give that same answer if Ciri had directly asked him about the book. Geralt can't tell Ciri that things aren't going well with the book. Not when Ciri is the one who wanted him to write the book, and was so happy that he finally agreed to write the book after years of her prodding him into it that she baked a cake and threw the two of them a party. He knows how happy she was because the cake said, in bright red icing, <em>I am happy that you finally agreed to write the book after years of me prodding you into it</em>. And Geralt could never ruin that happiness. He knows he has to finish this book, and he has to make it good, because Ciri is relying on him to provide her with a good book. Geralt can't give up, or fail, when his daughter's happiness hangs in the balance. Geralt can't tell Ciri that he's in danger of failure when he wants - needs - to make her proud. "Things are going very well." </p><p>"Good. I'm glad to hear it." Ciri pokes Geralt in the chest again. "I told you for years that things would go well once you got started. And you didn't believe me." </p><p>Looking at Ciri's pleased smile, tinged with a hint of smugness, Geralt can't disappoint her. He can't tell her she was wrong. He can't say anything that might ruin his chance to make his daughter proud of him. So he says, "You were right." </p><p>"I'm right a lot." Ciri crosses her arms, looking even more smug, like she's daring Geralt to dispute her claim. And the thing is, Geralt can't. It sounds like typical seventeen year old know-it-all bluster, but Ciri <em>is</em> right a lot. She's right more often than Geralt is, anyway. Geralt only wishes she was right about the book. </p><p>"Well aware," Geralt replies, with a little huff of a laugh. "You never let me forget it." </p><p>"It's a good thing I decided to check on you before I leave," Ciri says. She looks around at the stained tea mugs among the plants on the windowsill, the crumpled paper messes on the desk, the ruined writing utensils, and shakes her head. Her expression would be identical to her other father's default judgemental stare, if it wasn't for the compassion in it. Geralt's been wondering how concerned he should be about the growing resemblances there. "If I hadn't tried to sneak a peek at your book, you would have spent four days without your glasses. You can tell me you would have noticed they were missing eventually, but we both know you wouldn't have looked for them." </p><p>Geralt doesn't tell Ciri he would've noticed his glasses were missing, because he's not sure he would've. He frowns, because there's another thing he hadn't noticed he was missing until Ciri stopped by. "Leave? Four days? What for?" </p><p>"For my soccer game in the City of Cintra." Ciri frowns in return, a mix of irritated and concerned. "I told you this trip would be longer than usual." </p><p>Ciri goes on a lot of trips. She's the star striker on Ard Carraigh Imperial Academy's girls soccer team, and her coaches are always gushing about how she's one of the best players the school's ever had. Geralt's very proud of her, and he supports her soccer playing wholeheartedly, but he's conflicted about how much she travels for road games. Geralt worries about Ciri when she's traveling. She's a heavily supervised almost-adult with survival skills and mastery of several types of self-defense and weapons, most of which Geralt taught her himself, but he's a protective dad who struggles to accept the fact that he can't personally prevent anything bad from ever happening to his daughter. The longer trips affect Ciri's school schedule, which Geralt's not a fan of either, since they stretch into weekdays and she misses classes and schoolwork that she has to make up for with tutoring. Both of those reservations made Geralt nearly veto Ciri joining the soccer team, which provoked a giant fight with Emhyr - big parenting decisions always provoke giant fights with Emhyr - who insisted that Ciri being a star athlete would make her a more attractive candidate for top universities and that Geralt would be "irreparably hobbling the potential of Cirilla's future due to irrational fear and stubborn short-sightedness" if he refused to sign the permission slip. Emhyr turned out to be very right, which annoys Geralt, because he hates Emhyr being right on principle. But soccer makes Ciri happy, and Geralt knows deep down that he never could've <em>actually</em> said no to something that makes Ciri so happy. </p><p>Still, though. Ciri's road game trips sometimes become problems. </p><p>"Thought your game was Friday after next, in Vengerberg," Geralt says. He has Ciri's travel schedule memorized - or, at least, he thought he did. Maybe he doesn't anymore. "You were gonna stop by University of Vengerberg to meet with the head of admissions, and stay overnight with Yennefer." </p><p>Geralt knows for sure that trip is happening, because he and Yennefer talked about it over video chat less than two weeks ago. And he remembers being happy about the plans, because he likes when Ciri spends time with Yennefer. He and Yennefer might've fought a lot during the two years they dated, but they really loved each other - a common theme in Geralt's relationships - and Yennefer is a good influence on Ciri. Ciri got so attached to Yennefer that she threw an hour-long screaming tantrum when they broke up, until Geralt called Yennefer and begged her to come over and reassure Ciri that she wasn't <em>going away forever and ever and ever, Geralt, you're the worst person ever, I want Yennefer back!</em> Needless to say, they kept in touch. Yennefer has been a great role model for Ciri over the years, despite having a variety of terrifying qualities, and she's much more helpful with Ciri's university application process than Geralt could ever hope to be. University was so far out of Geralt's reach that he never learned much about it, so despite his best efforts, he's been useless during this whole thing. The more guidance Ciri can get on her future from anyone that's not Emhyr, who unfortunately has been giving the majority of it so far, the better. Yennefer is a good person to provide Ciri with that guidance. Geralt suspects Yennefer might've taught Ciri how to make hallucinogenic concoctions using wild mushrooms, though. </p><p>"Yes, you're right. That's two weekends from now. But there's an away game this weekend too, in Cintra." Ciri's frown deepens. "Did you forget about it, Geralt? How? My entire game schedule is on our family calendar." This is a thing Ciri does now, another thing she learned from Emhyr, which is that everything gets "calendared". Usually by the person Emhyr pays to handle the mundane parts of his life, an assistant named Morvran. She uses <em>calendar</em> as a verb, and hearing that word as a verb makes Geralt feel deeply uncomfortable. That's the kind of lingo people in Emhyr's high-powered business world use, and Geralt doesn't like thinking about how much Ciri's become a part of that world. How comfortable she's gotten there. Apparently Ciri and Emhyr have some kind of internet calendar they "share" with Geralt, whatever that means. Geralt has never looked at the calendar, though Ciri said it's attached to his email somehow, but pretends he checks it because it'll upset Ciri if he admits he doesn't even know how to get to it. </p><p>"Right. Sorry. My mind got stuck in book stuff for a second. I remembered," Geralt lies.  He can't believe he forgot one of Ciri's soccer games. He never forgets one of her games, especially when they involve her going away from home for several days. Clearly, the way he's started completely losing track of time and his schedule and things that aren't book-related is extending into his parenting life. That's not acceptable, and it really concerns him. Ciri shouldn't know that, though. "Couldn't have forgotten. It was on the calendar." </p><p>"I'll have Morvran start sending you reminder emails for my games and trips. I'll tell him to send reminders for your personal appointments too, since you've missed so many  of those that our dentist asked me if you were still alive," Ciri says. As if Geralt is much better at handling emails. Maybe it'll work, though. He's had to start checking his email more than once a month now that Dettlaff and Regis regularly send him things. Geralt doesn't know why Ciri can't just remind him about the games herself, in person, but he has a sinking feeling that it has something to do with the way she seems to have started sharing Emhyr's assistant. Ciri having an assistant is a new and potentially alarming development. "In case you've forgotten the other thing on our calendar today, Papa just got into town." </p><p>Geralt freezes up. His muscles freeze up. His heart freezes up. His lungs freeze up. His blood freezes up. His brain freezes up. If souls are a thing, then his soul freezes up. Shit. He really needs to figure out how to check that damn calendar. Geralt tries to keep his face totally impassive, and it works, because he's had a lot of practice with hiding his facial expressions. And, unfortunately, dealing with Emhyr. </p><p>"Yup. He sure did," Geralt replies. He should've seen this coming. Emhyr's nearly overdue for a visit. As much as Geralt hopes that one time he'll leave and just never come back to Kaedwen, he wouldn't be so lucky. Every few months, inevitably, Emhyr will show back up in Geralt's physical proximity and Geralt will just have to deal with that. He really wants to know how long Emhyr is in town for, but he can't fake his way into getting that answer without admitting he doesn't even fully understand the concept of an internet calendar.</p><p>"Alright, good." Ciri looks more satisfied with Geralt now. In contrast, he's even less satisfied with himself. "Papa and I are arranging dinner plans for sometime after I get back. I wanted to make sure you've begun gathering your patience." </p><p>Ciri knows Geralt well. She knows he needs to gather a lot of patience to deal with her "Papa". He needs a full week, minimum, to prepare for one of those damn Family Dinners. Emhyr doesn't like them any more than Geralt does, and he's made that just as clear as Geralt has, but yet, they keep on fucking having them. Ciri seems to be hoping that if she keeps dragging her two fathers into "family gatherings" that are supposed to be civilized, those gatherings will eventually become civilized. Or they'll eventually become a family. Geralt hates disappointing his daughter, but then again, it's the responsibility of every parent to teach their child that life is full of disappointments. There are only three good things about those living nightmares: Emhyr's chef makes incredible food, Emhyr's strategy to dull the pain of the dinners involves generous pouring of exorbitantly expensive wine, and the fact that Emhyr keeps agreeing to Ciri's insistence on those gatherings is proof that the bastard really does love Ciri and is willing to undergo great suffering and sacrifice to make her happy. Unfortunately, Geralt also loves Ciri and is willing to bear that agony too. </p><p>Geralt stands up to hug Ciri. He pulls her into his arms and squeezes her hard for a moment, like he used to do when she was little and pretending to be a hungry werewolf made her squeal with laughter, then relaxes his grip and holds her close. Her hair smells like the lilac shampoo Yennefer sends her. "Good luck. You're gonna do great. You always do. Be safe. Text me every night." </p><p>"Geralt," Ciri mumbles into his chest, exaperated, but she hugs him back. She rolls her eyes at how protective Geralt is, how worried he is that something's going to happen to her, how his mind pelts him with worst case scenarios. But when Geralt sat her down shortly after she joined the soccer team and asked if his protectiveness seriously bothered her, she admitted that she liked having someone who cared so much about her wellbeing and was so determined to be there for her after the way her past guardians have abandoned her or died. Geralt didn't cry, but it was a close call. He's seen so much shit in his life, been through so many horrible things, found out how terrible the world can be. And he's experienced firsthand many reasons why can't trust such a cruel and savage place with his precious daughter. He's panicked so much, given up so much, and worked so much to make sure she grew up safely. But Geralt knows Ciri is smart, strong, competent, capable of taking care of herself, because he did everything he could to make sure she would be. So Geralt would never clip Ciri's wings, even though he worries when she uses them to fly too far away from him. "Geralt! Let go or I'll be late." </p><p>"Hm. Guess I could, if I have to." Geralt lets Ciri go, and tries to fix the way the front of her hair got ruffled up when he hugged her. He makes it worse. "You gotta win your game, though." </p><p>"I was planning to." Ciri swats Geralt's hand away, and tucks the dishevelled strands of hair back into their bun before he can pull the whole thing loose. "If we win, can I see some of your book?" </p><p>Geralt can't make that promise, because then he'd have to sacrifice a small animal to the universe to make his daughter lose a soccer game and he couldn't live with himself if he did that. "You can see the art of Melusine that Dettlaff's sending soon. Know she's one of your favorites." </p><p>Ciri shakes her head, giving him a something that's almost a carbon copy of Emhyr's haughty <em>the inadequacy of this suggestion astounds me sneer</em>, but then breaks it to pat his cheek fondly. "I'll wear you down eventually, old man." </p><p>"You sure will. It'll happen on the day the book is released." Geralt sits back down in his chair, wincing at the grating squawk that the rusted gears emit. He instinctively leans in and squints at his notebook and screen, then gets startled by the crispness of them and remembers Ciri put his glasses on him. "Alright. Get out of here. Call me if you need me." </p><p>"I will. Wash your disgusting dirty mugs, remember to eat dinner, and <em>don't</em> fight with Papa while I'm gone. I'd tell you to keep working on your book, but I'm sure you won't be able to drag yourself away from it." Ciri reaches down and ruffles up the front of Geralt's hair in retaliation, then dashes out of his office and shuts the door behind her. After a minute, Geralt hears the garage door open - Emhyr had the garage installed on the side of their house last year, along with some structure to level out part of the hill enough to hold it, and Geralt was unpleasantly surprised to come back from his out-of-town trip to do cryptid encounter interviews and see a new building had unexpectedly appeared on his property - and Ciri goes down their long winding driveway in the luxury convertible that Emhyr bought her. Which is what Emhyr had the garage built to shelter; he certainly didn't have the topography of a hill altered to protect the scratched and peeling green paint job on Geralt's decade-and-a-half old piece of shit truck. </p><p>Geralt lowers his head into his hands, remembering the glasses again when his palms smack into them and drive the frames painfully into the area around his eye sockets. He digs his fingers into the roots of his hair instead, dragging them along his scalp in misery until the elastic gets yanked out of his messy bun and sends tousled white strands tumbling down to his shoulders and tangling up in front of his face. He groans, an extended and weary vocalization of woe. Of course Emhyr is in town, and Geralt had zero days notice. Of course Emhyr wouldn't fucking call him, or even email him. Either because it was calendared (he thinks he's using that right), or because Emhyr knows Geralt wouldn't check the calendar and likes having the element of surprise. Given the asshole's penchant for strategy and maliciousness, the second one is more likely. Geralt knows he's being dramatic, but the situation calls for it. Because Emhyr is in town. And, just like his visits, what will happen next is inevitable. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Several hours later, Geralt is sprawled out on the huge bed in the master suite of Emhyr's mansion wearing nothing but a luxurious black silk sheet and the lovebites Emhyr sucked and nipped into sensitive patches of skin all over his body. Geralt's panting, sinking into the memory foam with his eyes rolled back in his head, trying to catch his breath after the best sex he's had in four months. It's the only sex he's had in four months, but even if it wasn't, Geralt knows it would've been the best. That's because it's been four months since the last time Emhyr was in town. </p><p>"Damn, that was good," Geralt mumbles, after a few minutes of laying together in the afterglow cooling down in the summer evening breeze from the big windows on the wall across from the bed. Emhyr claimed that breeze was the reason he left them wide open, but considering the elaborate fan and air conditioning system in here, Geralt knows it's because of how loud he gets when they fuck. Geralt leans over and angles his face just right, gets the kiss he's asking for, and smiles lazily against Emhyr's lips. He still dreads Emhyr's visits to a degree, but he also loves them because it means he gets railed so good his toes curl. "How long are you around for?" </p><p>"Three weeks," Emhyr replies. He slowly pushes himself up from the mattress, trying to get into a sitting position, but only makes it to his knees before Geralt puts a hand on the small of his back and pulls him back down for another kiss. The feeling of Emhyr's mouth against his distracts Geralt, keeping him from wondering if he wishes Emhyr would leave sooner or stay longer. </p><p>They always end up doing this when, every few months, Emhyr deigns to show back up. It's comfortable: slipping into a routine they know well, with a person they know well, taking pleasure from a body they know well and giving pleasure in return by doing the things they've learned how to do well. Having sex with Emhyr is so easy for Geralt, despite how hard the man is to tolerate, and he knows the feeling is mutual. Somewhere along the way, sleeping together became the path of least resistance. So Geralt and Emhyr keep doing it, even though they're both aware that how well they know each other is part of the big problem between them. </p><p>"Last project go okay?" Geralt asks, finally getting around to asking about the thing that's consumed Emhyr's life for the past few months. They started fighting immediately after Geralt arrived, and it escalated from there. Geralt let himself into Emhyr's house without telling Emhyr he was coming over, trying to use the element of surprise too; Emhyr gave him the codes to the gate and the front door right after they started sleeping together "in case Cirilla forgets them", even though they both knew she'd written them down and could just text him if she forgot. The problem is, Geralt's too predictable to get the drop on Emhyr. Geralt found the bastard sitting in his office with two glasses of scotch on the desk, to make it clear that he'd known Geralt would come crawling to him pretty quickly. That reminded Geralt he was annoyed at Emhyr for giving Ciri an assistant without consulting him, and they snarked at each other about it until it turned into a full-blown argument and Emhyr dragged Geralt off to his bedroom to "fuck <em>this insolent attitude</em> out of" him. </p><p>"Yes. It went very well." Emhyr props himself up on his elbow next to Geralt but doesn't try to get up any further, because Geralt is stronger than him and has made it clear he's not going to let him go anywhere for a while. His usually sharp amber eyes look softer in the moonlight. "I restructured five divisions within the corporation, merged two that had insufficient resources due to their redundancy, eliminated another for underperformance, and split off the final division into a subsidiary to resolve an internal priorities conflict that had derailed the strategic direction of the entire business. Ultimately, the corporation has been dragged back from the brink of collapse, and I expect its stock price to increase by a factor of ten within three months." </p><p>"Hm," Geralt hums, even though he doesn't understand or care about whatever business things an elite "Strategy Consultant" does, and reaches up to brush Emhyr's tousled black hair out of his face. He lets his fingers linger over the grey streak, which has been there as long as he's known Emhyr and never seems to grow, but looks better and better on him with every passing year. Geralt's own hair is even more of a mess, long white strands frizzy and tangled up where Emhyr twisted his hand into them and pulled so hard Geralt nearly came on the spot. It took multiple vigorous rounds of various sex acts to turn Geralt pliant and docile, but Emhyr wore him down. "Good for you. Sounds boring." </p><p>Geralt and Emhyr always end up talking in the aftermath of sex, because it's the only time they can have a civil conversation. They both require a sharp increase in endorphins in order to properly communicate with the other. And since, regrettably, they <em>do</em> have to communicate with each other, they use sex as a strategy. How it works is this: Geralt and Emhyr get alone together, Emhyr manhandles Geralt and kisses the breath out of him, and they have sex. Then, once they've got some post-orgasm dopamine and oxytocin going, they can talk. Sometimes they work out their disagreements, sometimes they make big parenting decisions, sometimes they discuss things that have been on their minds, and sometimes they just tell boring stories from their days because it's the only time they're going to be open to each other enough to do that.</p><p>Believe it or not, this is a big improvement from where they were. Geralt used to not be able to stand being in the same room as Emhyr when the man first came back into his and Ciri's lives five years ago. It was mutual. Emhyr was a filthy rich and highly sought after business consultant from a high-society old money family, was extremely snobby about it, and looked down his shapely nose at the broke metalworker without much of an education whose mother dumped him in front of an orphanage in his childhood. Emhyr made it clear Geralt wasn't keeping "his daughter" in conditions up to his standards - and so did the eye-poppingly expensive lawyer he used, along with his <em>var Emreis</em> last name, to get partial custody of Geralt's daughter. Geralt didn't know they needed a lawyer until Ciri told him they did, and then he couldn't afford one, so he never had a real shot at fighting that case. Which is ridiculous considering Emhyr fucking <em>abandoned</em> Ciri, and as an abandoned child himself, Geralt thought that should be enough to disqualify him from ever getting her back. But Emhyr spun all these tales of wanting to give Ciri a lavish and well-connected life that the surly scarred up man in the shabby ill-fitting second-hand suit never could, and that was enough for the judge. Things between Geralt and Emhyr were ugly at first, because Ciri was angry about the one-sided custody battle and so Geralt was angry about it. Gradually Ciri stopped being angry about it, so Geralt stopped being angry about it, but stayed angry at Emhyr because he's kind of a dick. </p><p>"Cirilla called it boring as well," Emhyr says. He lets Geralt play with his hair with surprisingly little resistance.</p><p>Geralt snorts, twining that section of grey hair around his index finger. "How'd you get her to listen to you drone on about your work?" </p><p>"She had to write a paper for her Case Studies in Corporate Strategy class, and decided she would rather listen to my droning than read a book." Emhyr's voice is wry. "Her interview questions were rather perfunctory, but she earned a perfect score on her paper nonetheless." </p><p>And that, right there, is why Geralt reluctantly dropped his plans to hate every bone in Emhyr's rich body until one or both of them died: because the bastard benefitted Ciri. At first Geralt and Ciri put up with Emhyr because legally they had to, plus he paid for everything Ciri needed plus frequent gifts. Emhyr could be a pain in the ass; his presence was an annoyance on principle, he and Geralt argued every time they communicated, and every so often he'd meddle in their lives by doing some shit like enrolling Ciri in a fancy private school or sending a renovation team to remove all the beat-up thrift store furniture from their house and replace it with pricey designer stuff. Mostly, though, he just sent them money and left them alone. Once Ciri hated Emhyr a little less - she did plenty of yelling about how he couldn't buy her love, but didn't hesitate to accept room makeovers and extravagant presents and shopping sprees - he started to visit. Emhyr bought a mansion a short drive from Daevon and stopped by a few times a year, worked surprisingly hard to win Ciri over, and expressed genuine regret for the years he hadn't been there for her. Once Emhyr became a useful force in Ciri's academic and professional development, opening doors to a world of money and power and status that Geralt couldn't even imagine, Geralt had to grudgingly admit that Emhyr is genuinely good for his daughter. </p><p>"Proud of Ciri. She stayed awake through your boring business shit and made a good paper out of it." Geralt yawns, resting his hand on Emhyr's on the bed. He doesn't pay attention to Ciri's grades, even though he probably should. He pays attention to her soccer season, her school attendance, and her happiness. Emhyr pays attention to her academics, her professional connections, and her university applications process. Geralt checks in on Ciri when he feels like he needs to, and Emhyr requires weekly formal progress reports from her. They have two very different approaches to parenting, and support her in two very different ways. At first that led to combative "Cirilla Update" calls where they argued over who was being a better father to her until one of them snapped something mean at the other and hung up, but now they seem to have accepted that it's a good thing they can split those responsibilities. </p><p>Geralt has also accepted that maybe he overreacted by accusing Emhyr of trying to get their daughter to outsource her family communication to some random guy as soon as he shoved open his office door. "What I said earlier, about you trying to offload our lives onto strangers. And you being an emotionally detached asshole. I..." </p><p>Emhyr cuts him off before he can try to acknowledge that he might've overreacted without actually admitting it. "Effective foreplay." </p><p>And that pretty much sums it up. Fighting with each other was how they started fucking in the first place. Two years into Emhyr's reappearance in Geralt and Ciri's lives, the associated conflicts through in-person conversations and phone calls and texts and emails built up to a breaking point. They got so fed up with each other during one of Emhyr's visits that a typical argument turned heated in a very different way. They were aggravated enough to give into the urge to take that aggression out on each other sexually, and Geralt ended up discovering that his daughter's other father is an amazing lay. After enough amazing lays, which they started staying together longer and longer after the conclusion of, Geralt made another unwelcome discovery. Unfortunately for Geralt, it turned out that Emhyr is capable of being a witty and occasionally charming conversationalist. And, for a short time under certain circumstances, something like a companion. A partner. That doesn't mean Geralt likes Emhyr, though. The man is still insufferable.</p><p>"Figured. You only suck my dick to shut me up." Geralt lets out a huffing noise that's almost a laugh, and neither of them points out that it's not true. </p><p>"To make you stop talking," Emhyr corrects. "If my goal was your silence, inciting your loud obscene noises would be counterproductive." </p><p>Geralt shoves Emhyr's shoulder, not hard enough to push him over but hard enough to shake him, because it's true. Both that Geralt moans like a slut, and that he'll keep provoking Emhyr until he leaves or makes him stop. Which is why they never get along over the phone, or in front of Ciri. Their bickering drives Ciri crazy. The "family dinners" she pushes them into usually lead to her scolding them for snarking and sniping at each other until they're on the verge of outright confrontation. If they're having a particularly bad night, she'll storm off to the bedroom she only uses for that exact purpose - they only meet at Emhyr's house since Emhyr refuses to go to what he calls Geralt's <em>hovel</em>, partially because it's not good enough for him to step foot in and partially because he hates that Ciri would rather live in Geralt's hovel than the nice suite Emhyr set up for her in his mansion - after snapping at them to sort their "petty immature squabbling" out. Geralt and Emhyr will then secretively make out in the second living room so they can be civil enough to each other to pretend they made amends, but that's the furthest they'll go with Ciri in the house, so she's never seen her fathers get along. Which is a good thing, because the last thing either of them wants is for Ciri to find out about their ambiguous mess of a relationship. </p><p>Geralt lazily traces his fingers down Emhyr's arm, light and slow and teasing. "Besides me, what are you gonna do while you're here?" </p><p>It always feels like Emhyr is in town on a business trip when he visits, even though it's technically the other way around. He claims this house is his "home", even though he only spends a few weeks a year here and has a luxury penthouse in the City of Nilfgaard. Geralt rolled his eyes at that for the first few years, and snorted in laughter when Ciri would sarcastically say <em>home is where the pool is</em>, but now he's starting to believe Emhyr might've actually come to feel like this town is home. Ciri's here, after all, and this is now the place he returns to between his trips all over the Continent. Which counts for something, since most of his clients and consulting projects are in Nilfgaard or one of its vassal states, and yet he keeps picking his house outside a little town in Kaedwen over that penthouse in the City of Golden Towers. But home or not, Emhyr doesn't stay here for long. Never for long.    </p><p>"Work. And I'm considering participating in the annual chess tournament," Emhyr says nonchalantly, as if he's not talking about the National Championship and he's not going to sweep it. Geralt remembers him stopping by the Regional Championship on a whim the last time he was in town, winning it without trying, commenting that it had been a <em>slightly dull afternoon</em> and then mostly forgetting about it. Emhyr's already a five-time Continent Champion, so for him, the Kaedwen Nationals aren't all that exciting. It'd be just like Emhyr to pop over there for a nice day of chess, eliminate a bunch of aspiring champions, win the final match, and then cede the Continent Championship spot to his defeated opponent and go home. Geralt knows this because he's done that multiple times in the Nilfgaard Nationals, and now that Kaedwen is supposedly his home, it was only a matter of time before he started terrorizing the Kaedwen Nationals too. </p><p>"Can't pass up a chance to ruin some dreams, huh." Geralt sits up just enough for another kiss, which turns into a few more. He doesn't have much of a brain-to-mouth filter around Emhyr, so he murmurs against Emhyr's lips, "You could ruin me instead." </p><p>"There will be time for both," Emhyr replies. He's looking at Geralt with those predatory eyes, the ones that clearly convey that he wants to immediately grab Geralt and ravish him, but he doesn't. A couple years ago, he might've. Emhyr doesn't fuck Geralt like he's fifty, and Geralt doesn't take it like he's well on his way there, but every so often he's reminded they're both getting old. He knows he'll get ravished soon enough, though, so he lays back down and keeps his patience. Emhyr makes up for it by pushing a hand into Geralt's sex-tousled hair, stroking the white roots and scratching his scalp with just the right amount of nails and pressure until Geralt rumbles out something like a purr. Emhyr knows exactly what he likes. "And you'll be working on your book, I assume?"  </p><p>"Yeah." Geralt closes his eyes, basking in the gentle breeze and listening to the cricket chirps that have started up and enjoying the feeling of the smooth silk sheets against his skin. Emhyr's fingers have him feeling so relaxed and content that he'd probably fall asleep if he didn't want more of all this. The atmosphere, the bed, the petting, the sex. Even the insufferable bastard. "Trying to get the chapter I'm working on wrapped up within the next week or so. It's shit, but I just need to get it done." </p><p>"That will be no problem," Emhyr tells him, and if that doesn't perfectly illustrate how different things are between them after they fuck, then nothing does. A few hours ago Emhyr would've said <em>certainly such low-quality drivel won't take long to scrawl out</em>, and Geralt would've said <em>it's not the motivational-speaker-fixes-business shit you read</em>, and Emhyr would've said <em>of course it's not since you can barely write a picture book</em>, and then they would've glared at each other until one of them called the other <em>a waste of time</em> and slammed the door on their way out of the room. But thanks to those pleasure endorphins, they don't say any of that. Emhyr cups Geralt's left cheek in his palm and looks into his eyes as he strokes his cheekbone, not shying away from the scar that Geralt doesn't let anyone but Emhyr and Ciri touch. Another bittersweet reminder of the time Geralt nearly threw away his life to save Calanthe's, ruining his career and his knee but earning himself guardianship of Ciri. Emhyr says, with much more confidence than Geralt has, "You will finish it, and it will turn out better than you think." </p><p>They stay there together in silence for a while before Geralt figures they've both caught their breath enough, and sits up to flip Emhyr over onto his back so quick he doesn't have time to react. Emhyr's not a small man, big and broad enough to manhandle a guy Geralt's size with no problem, but Geralt is strong and <em>finally</em> has the element of surprise. Emhyr makes a few noises, alarm and then annoyance and then arousal, as Geralt pins him to the bed and kisses him. When Geralt pulls back, Emhyr is glaring at him. "You are far too heavy to behave like an overgrown puppy." </p><p>"It's all the muscles. Gotta keep this body in shape for you," Geralt replies, then leans down to murmur in Emhyr's ear, "Needs to be sturdy enough to take what I want you to do to it." </p><p>Emhyr ends up fucking Geralt up against one of the big windows, with Geralt helplessly bracing his body on the now-closed glass and being very grateful for how strong it is. Geralt knows no one could actually see them here, since Emhyr's bedroom overlooks a back section of the sprawling grounds and it's late at night, but the thought of being visibly ruined by Emhyr - <em>for</em> Emhyr - turns Geralt on so much that he can't let himself think about why. Emhyr pulls out and turns him around and pushes back in right when Geralt's on the verge of coming, because he knows that kissing Geralt's neck will be enough to send him over the edge, and then pins him hard against the window to hold him up as his legs go weak during his fourth orgasm of the night. No one has ever taken advantage of Geralt's incredible stamina like Emhyr. Emhyr, damn him to hell, gives Geralt the best sex he's had in his life. </p><p>After that Emhyr tries to clean Geralt up under the rain showerheads in his huge walk-in shower, but Geralt immediately sinks down to the floor to suck him off. The granite isn't easy on his knees, especially the one that's already stiff and sore from how roughly he's gotten Emhyr to handle him, but the spaciousness and ventilation of the shower more than makes up for it. It means he can get his throat fucked as hard as he wants without worrying about getting asphyxiated by heat or steam. Geralt rolls his eyes at Emhyr's master bathroom, scoffing at the giant shower and mini-pool sized hot tub and wide assortment of bath and hair products, asking him if he's <em>trying to build a whole fuckin' spa in here</em>, but he has to appreciate how great the place is for all kinds of sex. And Geralt never has to go through the products, because Emhyr chooses for him. He always hands Geralt his own favorite shampoo and conditioner and body wash with an unspoken implication: <em>I want you to smell like me</em>. </p><p>They don't talk much after that, until they're curled up together in Emhyr's bed doing something Geralt might call cuddling if that wouldn't make both of them immediately stop doing it. Geralt's wearing the nice black and gold boxers and pajama pants that Emhyr bought in anticipation of his visit. Emhyr always does that: buys Geralt a luxurious pair of pajamas for when he inevitably sleeps over, then has his butler throw away whatever ratty clothes Geralt showed up in and set out a new outfit for him before he wakes up. There's a new outfit every morning that Geralt stays at Emhyr's place, perfectly fitting and comfortable and within the range of Geralt's tastes. He's never asked Emhyr how far ahead he plans. That used to piss off Geralt, the way Emhyr tosses out his clothes and then dresses him up in whatever he wants without asking his opinion about any part of that, but he's learned to use it to his advantage. He shows up in his raggediest outfit, whatever needs to be replaced the most, and then grumbles while putting on the expensive designer stuff Emhyr got him as if it's not a great opportunity to snag a bunch of high-quality clothes he can't afford. Geralt brings the outfits home and hides them to be worn only when Ciri's away, because they're too good to leave behind but he can't have her wondering where he got them.</p><p>"Ciri said you two were planning on dragging me into a Family Dinner after she gets back," Geralt says, placing a kiss on Emhyr's collarbone before nuzzling into his neck. He's got an arm around Emhyr's waist, firmly enough that Emhyr's only comfortable option is to hold Geralt tightly to his chest. This is a new development, within the past year or  so. At first they wouldn't even look at each other after they fucked. Then they progressed to brief touches on the back or waist and loosely held hands. After that it took less time than Geralt would've expected to move to lap-sitting or spooning, and then finally to the level of close snuggling that Geralt will never admit he likes. He suspects Emhyr is just humoring him by letting him do this, but that rare willingness to humor him is worth something. "Guessing she wants to tell you to buy her a new phone, brag about setting a new soccer team record for average goals scored per game, and ask a bunch of questions about that special honors fellowship whatever program at Ceas'raet University." </p><p>"Good," Emhyr replies, sounding pleased. That's the university Emhyr went to for both undergraduate and postgraduate, it's in the City of Nilfgaard, and it's universally considered the best school on the Continent. Ceas'raet University is one of the schools trying to entice Ciri into applying with all-but-guaranteed admission and a hefty scholarship package, as if she needs it with Emhyr's consulting money at her disposal. Given that Ciri's the daughter of Emhyr var Emreis, one of Ceas'raet's most prestigious alumni, her admission might as well be official. Emhyr is delighted about all the schools courting Ciri. Ciri's admission to several top universities has been Emhyr's biggest goal for her ever since he barged back into their lives, and he's worked hard to help her: sending her to Kaedwen's top private school, encouraging her to play soccer, getting her internships, having her tutored for admissions tests, working with her on her application essays, personally preparing her for interviews, leveraging connections to get her the attention of the right people, and arranging trips for her to visit any school she wants. It all sounds fucking exhausting. That's what convinced Geralt that Emhyr actually had good intentions in regaining custody of Ciri - despite how terribly he did it - and wanted her to succeed. Sending Ciri money was as easy as blinking for someone as rich as Emhyr, but someone as busy and overtaxed as him putting so much personal effort into her success proved that he cared about her. "She is leaning towards Ceas'raet, then?" </p><p>"Don't know. But <em>don't</em> push her." Geralt nips at Emhyr's neck to get him to look down and see his threatening glare. Emhyr has made it very clear he wants Ciri to go to Ceas'raet University. Much too clear for Geralt's liking. He wants Ciri to make her own decision free of pressure, which includes Emhyr providing reasons why Ceas'raet is better than every other school on her list and making the occasional offhand comment about how proud he would be if his daughter attended his alma mater. Ciri's not one to give in to anyone else's desires or expectations, and she still has a rebellious streak where her Papa's opinion is concerned, but Geralt doesn't like it anyway. Geralt doesn't understand why this whole "legacy at top school" is such a big deal, but apparently it is. And Emhyr cares a lot about status-related big deals. Geralt has kept Emhyr just short of explicitly saying he wants Ciri to go to Ceas'raet by threatening him every time he toes the line, and he'll keep doing it until all her acceptances are released and her decision is made. "I mean it, Emhyr. Don't. Not a single biased comment. None." </p><p>"Not one," Emhyr confirms. "Not that Cirilla gives my opinions any weight." </p><p>"You're lucky she doesn't. If Ciri could be swayed by your opinions, I'd never let you near her." Geralt buries his face back in Emhyr's neck, figuring he's gotten the point, and makes a little disgruntled noise when Emhyr shifts him a bit to keep his beard from tickling his skin. They lay there listening to the crickets and watching the rays of moonlight shift as clouds pass in front of them for a bit, until Geralt says, "You should get White Gull vodka and beef borgi...whatever that thing from last time was. You have great taste in wine, but that level of alcohol content isn't cutting it anymore. If I'm gonna put up with another one of those fucking Family Dinners with you, there better be strong booze."  </p><p>"Agreed. Strong booze will ease your attendance for me as well." Emhyr kisses Geralt's forehead. "Boeuf bourguignon is already on the menu, along with chocolate souffle. I remembered how much you enjoyed those. Anything else, just ask. You will have whatever you wish." </p><p>Geralt's heart does an uncomfortable thing at that, a sharp twinge, so he wriggles out of Emhyr's hold and turns over onto his side. Emhyr presses up against his back, wrapping his arms around Geralt's bare torso, and it's almost too much. This is the part where reality sometimes sets in. Emhyr will say something or do something that's just a little too good and it will remind Geralt that this isn't real. What they have here, now, isn't real. This is a couple of single old men who want to get laid and are stuck sharing a big part of their lives, so they fuck until they release enough brain chemicals to work out logistics that will keep them from failing at raising their child. Emhyr will travel all over the Continent for his job, but only makes time to visit his daughter and co-father a few times a year. Emhyr does things without asking Geralt, like altering his daughter's academic future and renovating parts of his house and throwing out his clothes and trying to influence one of his daughter's biggest life decisions. Geralt will never fully forgive Emhyr for the way he took custody of Ciri, and doesn't want to. Not to mention they don't get along. They can't communicate. They can't compromise. They can't cooperate. They don't even <em>like</em> each other. </p><p>All that is why Geralt and Emhyr don't want Ciri to find out about their catastrophe of a relationship. There's no good way to convey what they are, especially when <em>they</em> don't even know. They can't tell Ciri they're <em>just hooking up</em>, because that'd provide mental images of her dads that would scar her, and it doesn't cover the baggage that comes with it. But they can't tell Ciri anything else, because that might imply romantic feelings are involved, and they don't want to open her mind to that possibility. Geralt and Emhyr's relationship is too messy, too unstable, too complicated, too uncertain, too volatile, to even put that thought on the table. They don't know if Ciri would oppose the idea of her dads being in some kind of relationship, or even worse, support it and get her hopes up and inevitably be disappointed when they never get out of this ugly rut of fights and non-commitment. They couldn't let Ciri get hurt by coming to the conclusion they've both already accepted: whatever this thing is between them, it can't be more than this. </p><p>And Geralt shouldn't let himself forget this can't be anything more. Even worse, he can't let himself wish it could. Eventually Geralt will take his new clothes and his lovebites and one last kiss and go home, and the next time he sees Emhyr, they'll be insulting each other over caviar dip until their own daughter is disgusted with them. He can't afford to forget that this illusion will fade, because it always does. </p><p>But it's so easy to remain in the mirage when Emhyr strokes his bare chest and says, "As Cirilla is away until Tuesday, I thought perhaps you might wish to be extended an invitation to stay until then." </p><p>Emhyr always says it that way, implying it's Geralt who wants to stay here and Emhyr is just indulging him, but Geralt never asks to stay and yet Emhyr keeps offering. By now, Geralt's come to expect it. He only goes to Emhyr's place alone or stays there overnight when Ciri is out of town, so when she's traveling for soccer road games or a school field trip during one of Emhyr's visits, it's safe for him to assume Emhyr will want to take advantage of the chance for them to spend time together without their daughter finding out. And it's safe for Emhyr to assume Geralt will too. They used to manage one night at most before one of them declared they were sick of the other and Geralt left, but they gradually added more nights until they were spending the entirety of Ciri's absences together. If she's on a long trip, that could be several days. </p><p>Tuesday would mean three days together, maybe three and a half if Geralt's willing to give himself only a couple hours to rush home and act innocent before Ciri gets back from the airport. Geralt thinks he could survive three days here. Three days of eating gourmet meals cooked by a private chef, lounging in the pool and the hot tub, working out in the well-appointed home gym, and wearing well-fitting clothes that feel nice on his skin. Three days of hanging out on the grounds and working in his own little garden, a section of the big garden that Emhyr set aside for him to plant flowers and herbs in. Three days of Emhyr fucking him as much as he wants, overwhelming him with mindblowing pleasure as often as he can take, pushing the limits of Geralt's stamina with his mouth and fingers and cock and toys. Three days of Emhyr taking care of him better than anyone's taken care of him in his life, sometimes getting that look on his face that suggests he knows no one's ever taken care of Geralt like this and that he likes being the one to do it. Three days of Emhyr letting him know, without ever saying it, that he wants him. And three days of Emhyr working with him, not against him, to have a life together. </p><p>"Yeah. Guess I could stay," Geralt says, trying not to smile into his pillow. Emhyr kisses the base of Geralt's neck very gently, and Geralt suddenly feels the need to lighten the mood. "Won't go to your chess thing with you, though." </p><p>Emhyr lets out a low noise that might be a chuckle. "I would not permit you to, for both of our sakes." </p><p>Geralt shifts around so it's not obvious that he's leaning back into Emhyr's chest a little more, and then closes his eyes. He thinks about saying <em>would you prefer me to wait naked and hard in your bed for you to get back?</em>, but doesn't. He'll let that be a surprise.</p><p>"Are you still having your nightmares?" Emhyr asks, as if the nightmares that have plagued Geralt for most of his life would have vanished in the four months since they saw each other. There have been a couple times they went away, but only for a year at most. For the past several years they've been frequent and terrible, and since he started working on his book, they've been constant. He wants to write this book, wants to edit it, wants to publish it, but it's one of the most stressful things he's ever done. Geralt knows he'll probably have another nightmare tonight, but at least Emhyr will be here. Emhyr is surprisingly nice about the nightmares, and always has been, even when they'd just started sleeping together and could only stand each other for a few hours afterwards. He implied once that he understood what it was like to have frequent nightmares, but he didn't provide further details and Geralt didn't ask. Emhyr knows how to calm him down when he shoots bolt upright gasping for breath and trying to shake himself out of the grip of terror, knows to sit with him and rub his back and never ask what the nightmare was about. Just Geralt's luck that one of the people who comforts him best is Emhyr. Geralt nods, because Emhyr will find out about the nightmares even if he doesn't confirm it himself. Emhyr only says, "Good night, Geralt." </p><p>Geralt settles into Emhyr's arms and hopes for a couple hours of peace there. And a couple days of peace after. "Night, Emhyr." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Something in Geralt's run-down fifteen year old truck starts making a horrible grating noise at him when he hits twice the speed limit on the road into Daevon, but he ignores it because he's twenty minutes late to meet Regis and Dettlaff and the thing's a piece of shit anyway. Geralt wants to say it's not his fault he's running so late, or that he had a good reason for it, but it's definitely his fault and his reason is terrible. He wants to blame Emhyr for it, so luckily it's Emhyr's fault too. And that's why Geralt's reason for running late is terrible: it's Emhyr. And Emhyr is terrible. </p><p>Geralt knew it was a bad idea to set up a meeting with his editor and his illustrator on the last morning of his stay at Emhyr's house. He was painfully aware of how bad an idea it was while his mouth was saying <em>sure thing, Regis, sounds great</em>, and then cursed at himself out loud the second after he hung up the phone. But Regis was so excited to discuss the "substantial but hopefully favorable revisions" to Chapter 4 he'd sent Geralt a few days ago and show him a new brunch restaurant that just opened in West Daevon, and Geralt couldn't make him wait an extra day because his writer was arranging his schedule around his bad choices. And maybe Geralt was also trying to give himself a deadline, something that would make him leave Emhyr's place by noon on Tuesday. Because he knew he wouldn't leave by noon on his own, and Emhyr wouldn't make him leave. Either way, Geralt fucked that one up. </p><p>But it was hard to leave. Emhyr kissed Geralt awake, his loose wavy hair and sharp amber eyes both tinged golden in the sunlight coming in through the big windows to warm their naked bodies intertwined on the bed, and then gave him this nice, deep, slow morning sex that Geralt might've called <em>making love</em> if he was the type to refer to any kind of sex - let alone sex with Emhyr var Emreis - as <em>lovemaking</em>. Then Emhyr pulled Geralt into the shower and made out with him for a while before handing him the bath products that would make Geralt smell like him. While Geralt dressed in the latest classy outfit Emhyr's butler set out for him, Emhyr had the chef make Geralt's favorite chocolate waffles and bring them upstairs. Emhyr hand-fed Geralt his breakfast on a balcony overlooking Geralt's garden, and let Geralt talk about the white myrtle flowers he'd planted yesterday afternoon. Once Geralt was done, Emhyr informed him very casually that he'd watched from this balcony as Geralt planted those flowers and that he'd enjoyed the sight of him shirtless and sweaty. And <em>that</em> led to the outfit being yanked off and tossed onto their chairs so Emhyr could fuck Geralt bent over the railing, murmuring in his ear not to muffle his cries of pleasure. It was hastily pulled back on once Geralt remembered he had somewhere to be, which wasn't until the conclusion of a long interim period during which he could barely remember his own name. </p><p>Geralt would hate himself for the way his self-control broke this morning, except that it'd broken on Friday night and just never got pulled back together. Or maybe it broke for good a long time ago. The same thing happens over and over, every few months, year after year. Inevitable. Geralt hears Emhyr's in town, he goes crawling to that mansion outside of Daevon for a fight and a fuck, he rolls around in Emhyr's bed, he curls up in Emhyr's arms, he moves into Emhyr's home, and then it's so hard to leave. Hard to leave when he knows he won't be living that kind of luxury for a while, or getting that kind of sex for a while. Even harder when he knows he won't be held like that for a while, or kissed like that for a while. Almost impossible when he remembers that the next time he sees Emhyr, they'll hate each other again. </p><p>The brunch place is on the edge of a plaza with a large fountain in the middle of it, and Geralt has to frantically dodge families out for a midday stroll and pigeons too cocky to move out of his path as he sprints from his truck to the restaurant and tries not to worry about whether Dettlaff and Regis are mad at him. He'd deserve it, if they were mad at him. He's mad at himself. Geralt straightens himself out as he runs, since he's still pretty rumpled from that balcony sex incident. It's strange how his perfectly tailored designer clothes and silky smooth deep-conditioned hair feel like hallmarks of a walk of shame. </p><p>Regis and Dettlaff are sitting at a table next to the far window, deep in conversation over nearly empty plates of pancakes, when Geralt bangs the door to the restaurant open. The noise is far too loud for such a small place, cutting through the jazzy piano music and chatter like a miter saw, and all the customers' and staff's heads snap up and turn to him. Geralt's used to people giving him judgemental looks, but the startled expression on Regis's face and the heightened-alert one on Dettlaff's make him feel much more judged than everyone else's stares combined. The door drifts harmlessly shut behind Geralt, and after a few dirty glares from some of the other patrons, he's left alone to look down at the rustic wood floor as he slinks between tables until he's reached the other side of the restaurant. </p><p>"Geralt," Regis says, just before he can bump into his editor and illustrator's table.</p><p>Geralt reluctantly drags his gaze up, ready to untangle a few words from the jumble of apologies that feel like they're about to fall out of his mouth, but then he sees Regis and Dettlaff's faces. They don't look mad. They look - interested. Regis is smiling, inquisitive black eyes scanning him up and down with a scrutiny that's not unpleasant, and Dettlaff is doing the same but much more piercing. Geralt stiffens up like a mannequin as they take him in. The tight black shirt and trousers that cling to every curve of his body, the glossy hair and beard neatly trimmed by a certain barbering-trained butler, his cheeks slightly flushed from his mad dash to the restaurant. He feels like he's being visually dissected, and wonders what information Dettlaff is pulling from his appearance. The feeling of being so <em>seen</em> gets to be too much after a couple of seconds, overriding Geralt's instinct to freeze, and he places himself down gingerly in the chair across the table from the couple. He's still feeling the effects of those two rounds of morning sex. </p><p>"My, what a smashing ensemble!" Regis says, looking strangely pleased at the sight of Geralt. "You wear it well." </p><p>"Shut up, I look like a twit," Geralt mumbles, without thinking, and then his brain processes that it's unprofessional and rude to tell his colleague to shut up and call himself a twit. </p><p>Regis, however, just chuckles. "I had no idea that <em>twit</em> was a synonym for <em>handsome, dashingly dapper man</em>. As a wordsmith and literary professional, I shouldn't be so far behind the linguistic times." </p><p>And, just like that, Geralt's thrown off balance by the charming editor again. His mind blanks out, mercilessly free of any possible response. Geralt ducks his head, and shiny pearl-white strands of hair end up in his eyes. He now regrets the loss of his hair elastic, which Emhyr snapped sometime during that whirlwind of marathon sex on Friday night and didn't provide him with a replacement for. That was the opposite of a problem for Geralt during the past few days; having his hair down gave Emhyr easy access to stroke it or tangle his fingers in it or aggressively yank it whenever he wanted, all of which were very welcome. But now, being unable to trap his hair in its usual half-up style is, just like most of the nice things Emhyr inflicts on him, very impractical in Geralt's everyday life. </p><p>"You smell delectable as well," Regis comments, and Geralt feels flushed all the way to his toes knowing it's Emhyr's cologne he's talking about. Emhyr sprayed it onto Geralt's neck and wrists after Geralt got re-dressed, for good measure. In case all the body and hair products weren't enough to make Geralt truly smell like <em>his</em>. The spicy musk made Geralt shiver then, feeling pleasantly helpless at being marked as Emhyr's. But now, smelling like Emhyr's scent and knowing people are noticing - Regis and Dettlaff, no less - feels almost shameful. Humiliating. Regis seems to enjoy the smell, though. "Quite a fine cologne. Are you going somewhere special?" </p><p>Geralt's not going anywhere special. He's just arrived somewhere special, after coming from somewhere special. But once he leaves this restaurant, he's going back to his little isolated tree-sheltered house in the hills on the eastern outskirts of Daevon. He's going to take a thorough shower, hide these nice clothes, and make himself a cup of  chamomile tea to pour White Gull into. He'll be back to his usual state by the time Ciri comes home: scribbling dull pencil marks onto crumpled pages in a beat up notebook, wearing messy hair twisted up in an overstretched hair elastic and sweatpants full of holes. Just like he does after all of these visits, Geralt will erase every trace of Emhyr var Emreis from his body. He'll make sure his daughter will never guess that, every few months, Geralt lets her other father take him over. That Geralt lets Emhyr fuck him so good he cries, care for him like they're in love, treat him like a husband, turn him into <em>this</em>, and make him enjoy every second of it. And, just like always, Geralt will try and fail to erase every trace of Emhyr from his mind. </p><p>So Geralt says, still looking down at a knot in the grainy wood table, "Not particularly." </p><p>"Your appearance and scent are very pleasing to the senses," Dettlaff assesses, in that low and husky voice of his, and it occurs to Geralt that he passed up a lot of priceless opportunities to drown himself in that pool. </p><p>Regis sounds like he's trying to stifle an amused laugh when he says, "Would you like to order food before we begin? The pancakes are exquisite." </p><p>"Just coffee. Already ate." Geralt tries not to picture the way he looked into Emhyr's lust-darkened eyes as he licked whipped cream off Emhyr's fingers, and then sucked them until he knew he was half a second away from getting his face shoved between Emhyr's legs. Geralt thinks Regis would probably be happy that Emhyr's chef made sure he was eating properly these last few days, even brought him water and snacks and a reminder to come in for dinner when he lost track of time in his garden, but he's not going to say anything about that. He doesn't want to. And he can't. </p><p>Geralt can't say anything about Emhyr to anyone. Not to Regis, not to Dettlaff, and especially not to Ciri. It doesn't feel good to lie to his daughter, even if it's just by omission, but it's best for their warped little not-family if he keeps that mess away from her. Dettlaff and Regis are his work colleagues, so as much as Regis insists on trying to "optimize his living conditions", his disastrous cycle of questionable trysts is something neither of them needs to know about. Even if Dettlaff and Regis weren't his illustrator and his editor, and even with how sweet and non-judgemental they seem to be, Geralt couldn't admit to what he does for a few days every few months. Not to that perfect couple in that perfect healthy long-term relationship, with their good communication and easy comfort and stable connection and honest bond. </p><p>There's some other dimension to Geralt's reluctance, though. Something that makes a lot less sense than the shame, which makes complete sense. Anybody could see why Geralt wouldn't want to confess to accidentally ending up as the dirty-little-secret sugar baby of his morally deficient and constantly absent baby daddy, who he kind of hates, and then going along with it for years because the sex and the luxury and the gentle morning kisses are so good. What Geralt doesn't understand is why he's bothered by the idea that Regis and Dettlaff might think he's taken. There's no reason why Geralt should want his editor and illustrator to be certain he's not off the market, because his not-taken status doesn't matter unless he's trying to date them, which he obviously isn't. Even if he did want to try to date them - and he obviously wouldn't want to try, because they're just work colleagues who enjoy each other's company and their relationship isn't like that - he'd never actually try. Dettlaff and Regis are happy together, and they'd never want Geralt to inflict an attempt to squeeze into their perfect relationship upon them. They'd never want Geralt to inflict <em>himself</em> upon them. And Geralt wouldn't want that either, because he'd mess up their relationship just by trying to worm his unwelcome presence into it. The last thing Geralt would want is to ruin a relationship like theirs. </p><p>But Geralt isn't trying to date them, so none of this makes sense. Geralt doesn't think about things like this, and he certainly isn't bothered by them. His mind must be beyond muddled up by Emhyr kissing him and spoiling him and fucking him so incredibly that he fell apart and had to be held until he'd been put back together. </p><p>"Geralt?" Regis says, and Geralt flicks his eyes up to see Dettlaff holding a cup of coffee out to him. Geralt blinks at it, wondering when and how it got there. And how long it's been there without him noticing it. He looks between Regis and Dettlaff and the coffee, and blinks again. Regis smiles fondly. "Ah, the propensity of writers to become lost in the all-encompassing realm of thought. A habit with which I am well familiar. As I was saying, presumably after your mind embarked upon its engrossing journey, Dettlaff ordered you a coffee prior to your arrival." </p><p>"Thanks, Dettlaff." Geralt takes the coffee carefully, and even though his previous careers have given him incredibly steady hands, he has a moment of concern that he'll spill hot liquid on his illustrator's primary art-producing appendages and leave them with third-degree burns. He's still thrown off by whatever the hell was going on in his  head, and now by the unexpected coffee. Geralt's started to be able to pick out the slight variations in Dettlaff's scrutinizing looks, even though he can't tell how he's picking up the differences, and the one Dettlaff is giving him now is his checking-for-Geralt's-reaction-to-something look. Geralt takes a sip of the coffee, enjoying the rich flavor of the beans and the little splash of cream - exactly how he likes it - and then nods at Dettlaff. "Really appreciate it. Thanks." </p><p>"I anticipated you might want it," Dettlaff replies, looking like he's gotten whatever he wanted out of Geralt's reaction. Geralt wonders what it was. </p><p>Geralt takes another sip of the coffee, a bigger one now that he knows it's temperate, and considers how perfectly it matches up with his preferences. Dark roast, strong, tiny bit of cream. It could've been a lucky guess, but it seems much more likely that someone would just give him plain black coffee and let him figure the rest out if they didn't know what he'd want. Which means Dettlaff not only guessed that Geralt would want coffee instead of tea, either because of the type of restaurant or how late he was running, he remembered how Geralt takes his coffee on the rare occasions he orders it. Dettlaff's powers of observation really are impressive. But what might be even more impressive is that Dettlaff thought about what Geralt would want, and got it for him. That makes Geralt feel warm, the same kind of warm he feels when Regis calls him <em>dear</em> or touches his shoulder. A kind of warm he's not used to feeling. </p><p>"Yeah. Really needed it." Geralt gives Dettlaff a crooked-lipped, sheepish smile. "You anticipated right." </p><p>"I hope it will assist in anchoring you to the present," Dettlaff says. And just like that, he clocks Geralt again. </p><p>Everything around Geralt still feels weird, like he's caught between two states of being and hasn't quite shifted over to the side he's supposed to be on. Regis called a feeling like this a <em>liminal state</em>, when he was trying to explain what it feels like to get pulled out of a book he's really absorbed in. That's how Geralt feels now. He got yanked out of a fantasy world, and he's trying to come back to his real life. The bubble of luxury and indulgence and escapism he floats in with Emhyr for a couple days every few months, where long-term consequences don't sink in the way they should and everything outside the mansion's grounds feels far away, is another place entirely. Out here, Geralt is writing a book and raising a daughter and there are other people whose jobs are dependent on what he does or doesn't do. He feels strange and conspicuous in his elegant clothes and lustrous hair, like he's dressed up for a formal event that he's no longer at. They felt right inside the bubble, but now he feels out of place and self-conscious. He wants to pull on a worn-out jacket, frizz his hair up, douse his body in cheap laundry detergent and look like himself again. Feel like himself. Not like the pretty thing Emhyr turns him into: impeccably groomed, and either dressed up like a rich man's pet or naked. </p><p>It's funny, because not too long ago, Geralt was sitting in a garden café looking like himself and wishing that he looked like this instead. He wanted to look good for Dettlaff and Regis, but now that he does, it doesn't feel right. </p><p>Geralt drinks his coffee as Regis lights up, remembering a newspaper article he wanted to talk about, and then sets off on a rambling monologue about it. Geralt can't follow it, what with all the tangents and details and complicated turns of phrase and clumps of big words, but it keeps Regis busy. It's endearing when he rambles, even if Geralt doesn't know or care what he's saying a good deal of the time. By the time Regis finally runs out of steam, Geralt's cup is empty. And, like Dettlaff hoped, he feels a lot better. More grounded. </p><p>"Ah, but I'm imposing yet another one of my speeches upon you," Regis says, with a sigh. "I am blessed with such good listeners as yourself and Dettlaff, and thus, you are cursed with such a circumlocutory elocutionist as myself. If memory serves me, we did not plan this meeting for me to embark upon a diatribe about the oddities of a proposed alteration to Redanian property law. Rather, we intended to discuss my revisions to Chapter 4 of <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>, "Ozzrel the Alghoul", by the incomparable Geralt Roger Eric Du Haute-Bellegarde. So, Geralt, I cede the floor to you. Thoughts?" </p><p>"Revisions were good," Geralt says. Regis is giving him this intent and eager stare, approaching Dettlaff-level, and Geralt suddenly regrets drinking his coffee so fast. Or not ordering food. Not having something he could put in his mouth that would give him an excuse not to talk and buy him some time. "Really good." </p><p>"Excellent. You have made my day." Regis beams. "But, as much as I appreciate the positive review, I know you must have more comments for me." </p><p>"Yup. Sure do," Geralt says. He does not. It was easy for Geralt to forget about that problem, and not realize how big it was, during this morning's blur of sex and food and speed-limit breaking. But there <em>is</em> a big problem, which is that Geralt completely dropped the ball. Because he read the revised version of the chapter, he really did. The thing is, he read it yesterday. He read it by the pool, between gardening and dinner, his mind repeatedly drifting to the ball gag and paddle Emhyr showed him that morning while describing in a matter-of-fact voice exactly how he was going to dominate Geralt that night. Geralt read the revised version carefully, even if it didn't fully sink in, and he had the occasional observation about it. But he hadn't brought a notebook outside with him, and he was so sure he'd remember to write those observations down after dinner. Then, sure enough, Emhyr came home from from his client meetings and spanked and fucked all coherent thoughts out of Geralt's head. Somewhere between the reading and this current moment, the details got lost. </p><p>"Care to share them?" Regis prompts, pulling a blank piece of paper and an already-uncapped green pen out of thin air. "I am on the edge of my seat." </p><p>Geralt remembers thinking the revisions were great. He doesn't recall exactly what they were, or why they were so good, but he knows they were great. Regis's revisions are always great. He had some thoughts about them, but he had no major questions and definitely no changes. So maybe it's not that bad that the specifics have slipped away from him. They wouldn't make too much of a difference, in the long run. Geralt doesn't know shit about writing, so his comments were probably stupid anyway. It's likely for the best that he isn't going to babble at Regis about things that were either obvious, misguided, or off the mark entirely. Maybe that ball gag and paddle did the whole team a favor here. So Geralt says what matters, which is, "Yeah. Revised version was good. Liked it a lot. Much better than my version. Should probably make everybody's lives easier and let you write the whole book." </p><p>"Oh, Geralt. My dear, self-effacing author. Don't put yourself down. You flatter me at your own expense." Regis looks sympathetic, almost sad, though Geralt's not sure what he's sympathizing with. Regis reaches across the table and places his hand on Geralt's, just for a moment, then leaves Geralt's skin tingling as he pulls his hand away and picks up his fork instead. Regis's fingers were cold, probably from the strong air conditioning in the restaurant, which must be why Geralt's skin is prickling. Regis finishes his pancakes, looking like he's carefully measuring out words in his head, before he puts his fork down. His black eyes are soft as he looks at Geralt. "This book is yours, Geralt, and as such, no one should write it but you. No one <em>can</em> write it but you." </p><p>Geralt would disagree with that, but he's not about to debate with Regis. He knows better than that. Instead he says, "And nobody should edit it but you, so, looks like we've got a good thing going here." </p><p>Regis smiles, looking chuffed. "I should dispute that, purely on grounds of objectivity, but I must admit I am selfishly pleased to receive such a major compliment. Well, I'm equal measures happy and relieved that you approved of my revisions. I know they are precisely what you signed off on, but yet, a smidgen of doubt lingers in every editor's mind while implementing changes, no matter how big or small. Reality has a nasty habit of falling short of what one might expect or desire." </p><p>"No shortfalls here. Reality was perfect," Geralt reassures Regis. "Exactly what we agreed, and better than I hoped for." </p><p>"You do know how to boost an editor's self-esteem. I daresay you may be in danger of inflating this one's ego." Regis pats Geralt's hand, and his fingers are warmer this time, but the tingling is no less palpable. </p><p>"Just giving the facts," Geralt replies, and consciously chooses not to interrogate the way he wishes Regis would keep his hand there for a while. Instead, he takes advantage of this moment where he seems to have maneuvered his way out of the revision analysis corner and redirects the conversation before he can get backed into it again. "Dettlaff. Heard you did a sketch of the Vigilosaur. Would love to see it, if you don't mind." </p><p>"Of course. It is for you." Dettlaff leans over to pick up Regis's messenger bag from the floor between them. The tone Dettlaff uses when he says <em>for you</em> has something inside Geralt stuttering. Dettlaff gets out his sketchbook, then does that thing where he opens it to exactly the right page without looking. His fingers are smudged with charcoal when he hands the sketchbook across the table to Geralt, and Geralt wonders what he was recently drawing. The sketch of the Vigilosaur is bold and sharp, and Geralt tilts his head a little at it. It's not exactly what he pictured the draconid looking like, but it does fit the monster's description, and it's - somehow better than what was in his mind. Dettlaff has brought a new dimension to the creature, giving visual form to a quality that Geralt tried to capture in his story without thinking about how it could be conveyed in an image of the Vigilosaur. And that's what makes Dettlaff so amazing. Not only can he pluck images out of Geralt's head from simple words on a page, but sometimes, he can pull out things that aren't explicitly written. Stuff that's part of the narrative without being in any descriptions or instructions. Regis was really underselling it, back when he told Geralt about Dettlaff's powers of observation and intuition and eye for beauty. Dettlaff's ability to find something of note in everything he sees goes the other way, too: Dettlaff manages to put something of note into everything he creates, and everything he does. </p><p>"It's..." Geralt falters under Dettlaff's searching-for-insight look, unable to come up with the words. The Vigilosaur glares up from the page, stunningly alive. Geralt doesn't know how to make <em>I love the personality of the creature you created</em> come out of his mouth right. So he goes with what he knows: monster features. "The tail, multiple forked ends and all the spikes, really gets across its fighting style. Position of the eyes, spread out like that, makes it look observant. The sneer with all the teeth shows that real nasty attitude it's got. Knew it'd be good, but... if we had a photo, I think it'd look like this." </p><p>"I quite liked the sneer too. Disagreeable creature, but not without a hint of humor," Regis agrees. He gives Dettlaff a fond smile. "You should have seen Dettlaff drawing it. He was so focused that he looked like one of his own paintings. It was quite picturesque. Dettlaff sitting at the table by the window in his studio, bent over the sketchbook, tongue sticking out the slightest bit, hair gleaming in the sun... were I not so woefully inadequate at visual art, I would have attempted to capture the scene myself." </p><p>Dettlaff's features twitch a little bit. Geralt would ping the tiny twist of his mouth and scrunch of his eyes as embarrassment, if it was anybody else, but he's never seen Dettlaff embarrassed before. Or, if he has, he didn't notice. But Geralt does wish that, like Regis said, he'd seen Dettlaff drawing the Vigilosaur. And that he'd seen Regis with him. It sounds like a sweet morning scene: Dettlaff working on his art by a sunny window, and Regis standing in the studio doorway watching him and smiling. Geralt finds himself strangely wistful about their relationship again, in the way he doesn't understand, and wonders how deprived he must be of stable people if the thought of a couple being happy together actually moves him to feel something. </p><p>"Your hands are smudged," Geralt points out, and doesn't expect the way Dettlaff reaches across the table to offer his pale left hand for Geralt's inspection. "Draw something recently?" </p><p>Dettlaff wordlessly takes back the sketchbook and turns it to a different page, then hands it over again. The page holds a collection of rough sketches, with today's date in the upper right corner. It looks like a daily practice, or maybe a warmup. There's a profile sketch of Regis reading through a stack of papers, a close-up of detailed feathers on a raven outside the studio window, a slightly cracked mug with realistic wisps of steam drifting up from it, and - Geralt. A very good likeness of Geralt, right in the middle of the page. The facial features are simplified but accurate, including the exact shape of his beard and the jagged edges of the scar down the left side of his face. The little section of hair that always finds its way out of his half-up style, no matter how tightly he ties it back, is drifting over one of the elongated cat-eye pupils that most artists would probably round out to make him look less freakish. Geralt stares down into those eyes, whose irises have been shaded in with a gold watercolor pencil despite everything else on the page being only black and white. </p><p>"Every day, I draw what is on my mind," Dettlaff says. </p><p>Geralt knows why he was on Dettlaff's mind. It's the same reason he's in front of Dettlaff at this brunch restaurant right now, which is that they had a scheduled meeting to discuss work business. And Dettlaff had just been drawing art for Geralt's book, because that's part of his job. So it makes sense that Geralt would feature in these sketches. But still, Dettlaff thinking about him enough to want to draw him, actually doing it, and doing a startlingly good job with it, has Geralt's normally steady heartbeat quickening. It's a very rough sketch, nothing compared to Dettlaff's nearly photorealistic beasts, but yet the crags of his face and the exact color of his eyes have clearly been committed to memory. Geralt knows how good Dettlaff is at the whole observation and execution thing, that he could probably draw the server that brought his perfect cup of coffee with the same kind of accuracy, but the fact that Dettlaff actually wanted to spend time drawing him when there's nothing special about him is - a lot. </p><p>"Couldn't resist the urge to draw another strange monster?" Geralt says, after what he hopes isn't too long of a silence. He feels the need to lighten the mood, like he always does in situations like this. Something to ease the gravity that's weighing on him even though no one else feels it. Geralt remembers too late that Dettlaff doesn't get jokes.</p><p>Dettlaff frowns. "Does the drawing resemble a monster?" </p><p>"No. Not at all. It's really good," Geralt hurries to reassure Dettlaff, because, fuck. He screwed up the communication thing again, and he might've just offended his illustrator. "Looks exactly like me." </p><p>Dettlaff frowns deeper. "You believe <em>you</em> resemble a monster?" Geralt curses himself for getting them into this situation. This is what he gets for being too awkward to look at some lines on a piece of paper and react like a normal person. "Far from it. You are stunning." </p><p>Geralt looks into Dettlaff's glacial eyes almost helplessly, like they might give him a response to that, and then falters at their intensity and quickly returns this attention to the drawing's golden eyes. He's never had anyone call him <em>stunning</em>. Not even once. And he figured nobody ever would. Ciri's joked about her friends thinking he's "the hot dad", Emhyr has said pleasantly obscene things about his various physical attributes, and Yennefer managed to get even more lewd with her descriptions of his body than Emhyr, but nobody's called him <em>stunning</em>. And someone like Dettlaff saying it - an artist, a scholar of beauty, and a master of observation - is unbelievable. Literally. Dettlaff might always say exactly what he means, but he sees the world a lot differently than most people, so there's a good chance he uses <em>stunning</em> in a different way than most people use it. Maybe he uses it as <em>interesting subject for a drawing</em>, which would make more sense. People have always found something interesting in the freakish, and since Dettlaff can find intrigue in a crunched-up leaf, someone with as many weird features as Geralt must be a gold mine. But Dettlaff is stunning in the conventional meaning of the word, as in <em>so attractive it could take your breath away</em>. So hearing that word come out of his mouth in regards to Geralt is - again, a lot. </p><p>"Dettlaff, don't fluster the poor dear," Regis says, chuckling. "You are far too charming for anyone's good." </p><p>Up until now, the list of people who thought Dettlaff was capable of being <em>far too charming for anyone's good</em> probably started and ended with Regis. But now, Geralt can officially add himself to the list. To be fair, he's been hovering close to it for a while.</p><p>"Apologies," Dettlaff says, and takes the sketchbook back. He doesn't sound apologetic at all. His tone is lighter than Geralt's used to hearing it, but not more expressive, which makes it impossible to place what mood he's trying to convey with it. Up until recently Geralt lived by the principle that it's better to stay silent than to risk saying something awkward, and he still subscribes to that theory, he's just gotten really bad at following it where Regis and Dettlaff are involved. But breaking with it hasn't served him well, so Geralt accepts that he's not going to come up with a good response to anything going on here and keeps his mouth clamped firmly shut. Regis shakes his head, then kisses Dettlaff's cheek. Dettlaff keeps looking at Geralt, and says, "I will not fluster you further." </p><p>Geralt wants to protest that he's not flustered, or that he doesn't get flustered, but - fuck. He keeps using his brain, and clamps his mouth shut tighter. Dettlaff might not intend to fluster him further, but it looks like neither of them is going to have a lot of say in whatever happens in Geralt's muddled-up head. Geralt doesn't know why that is, but he does know he doesn't like it. </p><p>"Geralt! I had hoped for a few more moments of your attention, before Dettlaff so gallantly stole it from me." Regis says it with the knowing smile of a man who sees someone floundering and is trying to throw them a conversational lifeline. Geralt is ready to snatch onto it with gratitude, until it turns out to lead somewhere even worse. "I deeply value your opinions and strive to provide you with opportunities to express them. As such, I cannot in good faith move forward without insisting upon you sharing the full extent of your desired contributions to our dialogue regarding the Chapter 4 revisions, particularly where constructive criticism may be involved." </p><p>Fuck. </p><p>"Phrasing was really cleaned up," Geralt says, ransacking his brain for whatever writerly commentary he can dig up. Preferably stuff he's heard Regis say, though a lot of the long-winded editor's complicated words don't even make it far enough into one of his ears to go out the other. While he's at it, he tries to construct some criticism out of thin air, something that will satisfy Regis's need for it without giving him a reason to dive back into the chapter and "judiciously apply your observations to the noted deficiencies" like he did the last time Geralt made the mistake of letting a stray thought about his own characterization of Melusine escape his mouth. "Storyline was direct and clear. Premise was solid. No plot holes. Whole thing sounded professional, like a real writer wrote it. Criticism... I think you might've left out a word in the second paragraph. Could be remembering that wrong. Don't change anything else, though. The rest was perfect." </p><p>"Thank you, Geralt. As always, I appreciate your thoughts. Though the story and the premise were all your doing, and I happen to know that the original draft was in fact the work of a "real writer"." Regis's eyes have that same sympathetic look they had during Geralt's first attempt to give him feedback. It's been popping up more and more during the feedback process lately, and Geralt's not sure why or what it means. "Per your note, I will retrace my steps on the second paragraph and see if a word slipped through the cracks - apologies in advance if that does turn out to be the case, as it would be quite a mortifying oversight for an editor of my caliber. But, very well. If you are truly satisfied with the version of Chapter 4 we have landed upon, then I will not prod you into requesting undesired alterations simply to sate my drive for perfection." </p><p>"Truly satisfied," Geralt confirms. The three of them sit there for a moment, listening to the clink of silverware on plates, the snazzy snare drum kicking up in the background piano music, and the laughing of a woman across the restaurant who sounds like she's taken full advantage of the bottomless cocktails advertised on the chalkboard sign out front. The place is noisy, far too noisy for Geralt's sensitive ears, and yet the silence that's fallen over their table feels like a fog as thick as the syrup drying on Regis's empty plate. This is when it hits Geralt, and hits him hard: him dragging Dettlaff and Regis out here was pointless. He contributed absolutely nothing to this conversation. The only thing he contributed to was the waste of a nice couple's Tuesday morning. </p><p>"Penny for your thoughts?" Regis asks. Geralt shrugs, and Regis clicks his tongue. "Geralt, dear, I have told you a thousand times that you think at the top of your metaphorical lungs. A shrug will not so easily dislodge this curious mind from the tantalizing precipice of your evident rumination." </p><p>"Sorry," Geralt says. When Regis tilts his head, Geralt clarifies, "Sorry I didn't have anything to say. Wasted your time."  </p><p>Dettlaff furrows his brow. "How did you waste it?" </p><p>"You came out here," Geralt says, indicating the restaurant around them, "to meet with me. And I didn't say anything. Nothing useful, anyway." </p><p>"Now, that's not true. You provided crucial insights regarding Dettlaff's art and my edits. I will hear none of this self-deprecating codswallop," Regis chides. Geralt examines the table and shrugs again, not bothering to pretend he believes Regis. None of them got a whole lot out of Geralt telling Dettlaff that his drawing had a good tail and facial expression, or telling Regis his revisions were fine and then totally making up an error. All three of them know that, at best, this meeting could've been a two sentence long email. And the worst part is, Geralt saw this coming. He saw it coming while he was <em>agreeing to this meeting</em>. He could've done something about it, if he'd listened to his brain back then. Instead, he gave into the allure of life as Emhyr's pet and let it slip his mind that everything else wouldn't work itself out in the background. Regis makes an undecipherable noise, then says, "Alright, Geralt. Let's say I grant you - simply as a thought experiment, as this clashes sharply with my actual beliefs - that you had said, as you put it, nothing useful. Meeting with you still would not have been a waste." </p><p>Geralt raises a skeptical eyebrow at the way Regis rubbed his hands together at the beginning of his so-called thought experiment. Unlike Regis's messenger bag strap clutching and chin stroking, he hasn't been able to figure out what that gesture means. "Yeah? How's that?" </p><p>"Because, Geralt," Dettlaff says, his deep voice so serious that Geralt can almost feel the vibrations in his chest, "any time spent with you is not a waste." </p><p>"Precisely," Regis concurs, like the vague statement sending Geralt's head reeling was any kind of explanation. "We are in all of this together. We depend on each other, and rely on each other. I have found that team bonding works wonders in a creative relationship, and particularly when it comes to the improvement of communication and the facilitation of an atmosphere of openness and trust. And, on a more personal note, Dettlaff and I find you to be pleasant company. Very pleasant company indeed." </p><p>Geralt's floundering again, but this time, he's not sure what kind of lifeline could pull him to safety. This whole thing is about work, Regis just said it's about work, his entire point was that this is about work, but - he said the <em>pleasant company</em> part like he really meant it, and <em>Dettlaff and I</em> like they've talked about it. Geralt knows Regis is far too nice to make him feel like an imposition, and that Dettlaff's a lot more of a smooth talker than he looks like, but the way they assured him this wasn't a waste of time sounded completely sincere. Geralt knows he needs to be saying something like <em>thanks</em> or <em>appreciate it</em> or <em>you're pleasant company too</em>, but it'd all sound so awkward coming out of his mouth. </p><p>"And if you're concerned that you somehow lured Dettlaff and I under false pretenses to the restaurant that we invited you to," Regis continues, "then worry not. We would have gone out for brunch regardless." </p><p>So Geralt's butting in on what could've been a date. Fuck.</p><p>Geralt can picture it now: Regis and Dettlaff sitting together in a quieter and more intimate corner, feeding each other food off their forks, talking about whatever domestic couple stuff they talk about. Probably kissing - actual kisses, since Geralt's noticed they limit themselves to kisses on the cheek or the hands when he's around. Getting in the way, without meaning to or wanting to, because he doesn't know how to say <em>it's fine, you can kiss</em> without sounding weird. He wishes they didn't feel the need to censor themselves around him. And, weirdest of all, Geralt kind of - well, he wishes they were on a date now. That doesn't make any sense, because there's no reason he should want to be with a couple specifically on a date instead of just hanging out. It's creepy, actually. Like he wants to be a voyeur to their relationship. In fact, this whole thing Geralt has going on where he likes watching them acting like a couple is strange. It's even stranger, and probably even creepier, the way he feels almost <em>part of</em> something, when he's with them. Fuck, he <em>is</em> creepy. Dettlaff and Regis are his professional colleagues, and they're having professional meetings, and the two of them dating shouldn't factor into the way Geralt feels about those meetings, or what he feels like he's part of - </p><p>Oh. A team. </p><p>Geralt feels like he's part of <em>a team</em>. </p><p>That's what it is. And when it clicks together, Geralt feels a massive sense of relief. He's not creepy, he just doesn't understand what it's like to be part of a team. He's not used to being part of - well, anything. His parents both left him, he got bounced between foster families like a hot potato, his foster siblings were fine with him mostly pretending he didn't exist, he never made friends his own age, his bodyguarding clients saw him as a human shield, and his metalworking job was very solitary. No wonder Geralt doesn't have the slightest fucking clue what it feels like to be part of a group. He's not used to being around people who are close, and even less used to being around people in healthy relationships. So he's not creepy, he's just kind of sad. But pathetic is better than weird. Geralt's glad to realize he's not the romantic version of a peeping tom. It's a team thing, and that's all it is. Once that sinks in, the part of him that's murmuring that there's a different reason he likes being around the couple will shut up. </p><p>The whole thing keeps making more and more sense, looking at it that way. Geralt likes seeing Regis and Dettlaff's relationship because they're a good model for a healthy relationship, which is something Geralt has been personally short on. Geralt's past relationships have been volatile, which is a nice word that glosses over the time Yennefer flung his furniture out the window and then dumped him in a lake. She did a lot of things like that, and because she's one of the most amazing people Geralt's ever met and he has no idea what's good for him, he found it all unbelievably sexy. And Geralt's current relationship, or whatever the hell he's playing at with Emhyr, is - fucked up. It's fucked up. They're so close to perfect together, and yet, they're so wrong for each other that the whole thing gets twisted. They're right on the edge of being able to stay together, and yet, there's too much wrong with the way they approach each other to sustain it. The whiff of Emhyr's cologne that Geralt gets when he moves his neck or wrists is a lot less hot now that he's out of yet another honeymoon phase, and is a lot more of a sordid shame. So that's why Geralt likes seeing Regis and Dettlaff together, seeing them happy, and seeing them in love. And it's just because of how healthy the couple is that Geralt wants to wash Emhyr's cologne off and get these clothes off and mess his hair up. He doesn't want to smell like Emhyr anymore. Not around Dettlaff and Regis. </p><p>But at least that whole mystery is solved. The problem is fixed. Geralt's part of a team. Only a team. That's a relief, and a nice feeling.</p><p>"Thanks," Geralt says. His voice sounds gruff, but it's always gruff. "For working with me. For being my team." </p><p>"I couldn't be happier to be part of your endeavor," Regis replies, beaming with those too-sharp teeth. "You are unique, Geralt, and very special. And so is your book." </p><p>"Your writing is an exceptional inspiration," Dettlaff says. "One for which I have longed." </p><p>"An inspiration indeed," Regis agrees. "And a portal, of sorts. To an enthralling world, equal parts magical and terrifying, a realm of horror and wonder. We could all stand to be transported to somewhere else from time to time, and writing that guides one through such a journey is a precious gift indeed." </p><p>The praise makes Geralt feel uncomfortable. Not in a bad way. He doesn't want it to stop, but he needs it to stop, because it hurts. In a good way. He wants it, but listening to it is almost excruciating. He aches like he's been craving it, but receiving it feels like hot needles under his skin. The conflicting feelings are confusing. It's too much. And that's probably because Geralt knows he doesn't deserve the praise. He appreciates that Regis and Dettlaff see something worthwhile in his work, but he doesn't get <em>why</em> they see it. Especially when they're both so intelligent and talented and good at what they do. Geralt's just an ordinary guy who's cluelessly fumbling through making a strange little beast book, and for some reason, other people care about it. That's all. </p><p>"'S not... I'm not..." Geralt mumbles. He didn't think he could visibly blush, but it turns out that there are still circumstances that can embarrass him enough to provoke the blood vessels in his face. He can't let them go on flattering him, because he might dissolve onto the floor at their feet, but he especially can't let it go on without saying something back. Geralt's not good with words, which is why he's not a real writer, and he's not good at opening up. On the rare occasions he's had a reason to, he's known it would be bad for him if he actually did it. Ciri has been the only exception he's ever found to that. Not Yennefer. Definitely not Emhyr. But Dettlaff and Regis seem harmless, relatively speaking. They're kind. They're patient. They're helpful. They're accepting. And after what they've said to him, what they've done for him, they deserve something back. Geralt doesn't know how to say affectionate things, but they've seen all his first drafts, so their standards should be low enough for him to try. Geralt mumbles again, "Appreciate you. Both of you. You're... the book." </p><p>Geralt was wrong about their standards being low enough to tolerate whatever he might say. He's set a new low right here. That was probably the stupidest thing he could've said. If he were to die right now, at this little wooden table in a bottomless-cocktails brunch restaurant over a backdrop of jazzy piano music, it would be fine. </p><p>"No. The three of us <em>together</em> are the book," Dettlaff says. Geralt winces. He'd hoped they might be nice enough not to mock him about that awkward turn of phrase, even though he well deserves it. But then he remembers Dettlaff doesn't do jokes. He doesn't do sarcasm. He doesn't mock people. Dettlaff is always serious. If Dettlaff says they're the book - whatever Geralt was trying to convey with that - then he means that, well, they're the book. </p><p>"We're the book," Regis repeats solemnly, and puts his hand in the middle of the table. Dettlaff puts his hand on top of Regis's, and Geralt gets the sense he's supposed to put his in too, so he does. Dettlaff moves his hand to the top of the stack, and Regis turns his over, so that they're holding Geralt's hand between both of theirs. Geralt gets a rush of warmth and tingling up his arm. He can't explain why, or - </p><p>- maybe he just doesn't want to. </p><p>"Ciri's the book too," Geralt says, looking down at his scarred-up callused hand between Dettlaff's big charcoal-smudged one and Regis's sharp-nailed wrinkled one. It doesn't look like it should be there, but yet, it is. "She started the whole thing. Wouldn't be doing this without her." </p><p>"Then the four of us are the book. Along with countless others. Whoever supports you is the book," Regis says. He squeezes Geralt's hand, and Dettlaff does as well. "I think you'll find that many people support you, and they support you more than you think. Likely more than you support yourself." </p><p>"Guess there are some people that support me. And the book." Geralt keeps looking down at their conjoined hands, and then, slowly and hesitantly, he squeezes back. "Yeah. Guess there are people that support the book."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Friday after next, Geralt is perched on a seat at the marble breakfast bar in Emhyr's big kitchen, eating a late night snack in the slinky and revealing gold silk robe that Emhyr dressed him in and basking in the afterglow of amazing sex. Emhyr is sitting in a chair he pulled away from the kitchen table they usually eat breakfast at, just watching him. Geralt's hair is falling long and loose around his face, combed through by Emhyr's fingers as they kissed slowly and languidly in bed while waiting for Geralt's limp and pliable body to regain enough strength to get up, but still tousled because it drives Emhyr wild to see the ways he's mussed Geralt up. And Geralt's getting heated again, feeling Emhyr's analytical eyes taking him in: his flushed cheeks, his bite-marked neck, his barely-on robe, and that messy hair. Emhyr's one of the most critical people Geralt's ever met, and yet, nobody has ever made him feel as sexy as Emhyr does.</p><p>Geralt's lucky he can even sit up and think clearly after what Emhyr did to him. Emhyr loves wringing as much out of Geralt's body as he can get from it, and Geralt suspects Emhyr might be planning to reduce him to an overstimulated wreck tonight by the way he gave Geralt three orgasms in two hours and then told him the night was <em>far from over</em>. There was a strategy to those, though. By the end of their blowjob exchange, Geralt stopped caring about the argument he started with Emhyr within a minute of muddying the pristine marble floor of the mansion's foyer with his old work boots and tracking Emhyr down like a bloodhound to the main living room. Halfway through the incredible prostate massage Emhyr gave him, Geralt forgot he doesn't like the man. And after Emhyr railed him within an inch of his life, Geralt couldn't even be mad when the bastard had the gall to drape him in a gold and black robe embroidered with the var Emreis family crest. Geralt thinks some of Emhyr's neighbors might know not just Emhyr's name, but what part of his body Geralt wants him to pound into his body, how big it is, and how hard Geralt wants him to do it. And Emhyr's closest neighbor is a five minute walk away. </p><p>"Like what you see?" Geralt asks, turning to face Emhyr and opening his legs a little wider. Emhyr continues to stare almost impassively at him, and the lack of expression on his face might daunt anyone else, but Geralt knows him better than that. And he knows what he looks like. The silk fabric of the robe hangs obscenely off Geralt's body, barely tied at the waist to reveal most of his muscular chest and abdomen, and the black-trimmed high slits in the sides show off his thighs and legs. Only Geralt's arms and back and essential bits are actually covered, and in a way, he looks even sluttier than if he was naked. Emhyr's amber eyes are sharp and intent as they linger on various parts of his body to take in the details, filled with the lust and possessiveness they get when Geralt wears something that marks him unmistakably as Emhyr's: his family crest, monograms of his initials, his spicy musk cologne, button-down shirts stolen from his closet, the 24-karat gold sun pendant necklace they both pretended wasn't clearly a third anniversary present. Geralt would die before admitting it to Emhyr, but he finds it hot too. And maybe he likes the feeling of being claimed. Emhyr's eyes darken, and Geralt guesses, "You've wanted to see me in something like this for a long time." </p><p>"I have," Emhyr replies. Then, "You wear it even more wantonly than I had imagined." </p><p>Geralt abandons his plate of cinnamon brioche and stalks over to Emhyr, easily settling himself on his lap and cupping the back of his neck to lick into his mouth. Emhyr braces Geralt with a hand on the middle of his back, fingers pressing hard into the gold silk, and lets Geralt lead the kiss. Once Geralt's gotten himself worked up and desperate enough to curl his fingers in Emhyr's salt-and-pepper hair and guide his lips to his neck, Emhyr pushes him off his lap. Geralt whines, but then Emhyr shoves him across the room to the kitchen island and bends him over it with an arm twisted behind his back and he's too aroused to complain. Emhyr fucks him with the robe still on, pushed to the side to reveal his ass. Geralt grasps helplessly at the smooth countertop and moans too loudly to hear Emhyr's much quieter noises, so delirious with pleasure that he can't do anything but feel Emhyr inside him until he comes. </p><p>They end up in the master suite bathroom's hot tub after that, fully naked this time. Emhyr orders Geralt to jerk himself off to completion while he watches, maddeningly impassive, then yanks Geralt across the hot tub by his hair and makes him rub himself off on Emhyr's thigh despite the way he gasps and trembles in Emhyr's lap from oversensitivity. Geralt's sure he won't be able to force another orgasm out of his exhausted body, even with how hot Emhyr dragging his blunt nails down his scarred back and growling commands into his ear is, because he's already come five times tonight and that's getting close to the upper limit of his nearly superhuman stamina. But then Geralt buries his face in Emhyr's shoulder and has the thought that he'd still let Emhyr do whatever he wanted with his body for another few hours, maybe all night, and the thought of being so <em>used</em> by Emhyr makes him immediately come. </p><p>Geralt is too dazed to have much awareness of Emhyr washing his hair and body with those heavenly products that make him smell like his, or drying him off with a luxuriously soft towel and carrying him to bed naked. He doesn't have much awareness of Emhyr coaxing him into drinking two glasses of water and finishing his snack, which he'd brought upstairs and left on the bedside table since Emhyr warned him that he'd be hungry after what they were going to do once they got up there. He's not aware of much until they're cuddled up between the sheets together, warm and clean, and it's perfect. Once Emhyr puts him into that pliant submissive state, Geralt can't imagine why they can't be gentle with each other forever. </p><p>"Satisfied?" Emhyr asks. He's running his fingers through Geralt's slowly drying hair, occasionally gently rubbing the roots and scalp to soothe the soreness from how deliciously hard he pulled it, and Geralt nods where his head is resting against Emhyr's collarbone. He knows his beard is tickling the skin, but he doesn't get repositioned or admonished so Emhyr must have decided to let it slide. The times Emhyr lets Geralt get away with something annoying are few and far between, and during their usual interactions Emhyr has a habit of pointing out every tiny thing Geralt does that's even slightly bothersome and explaining the ways it makes him difficult to tolerate, so Geralt hums in appreciation at the lenience and slings an arm over Emhyr's chest to pull him closer. Emhyr adjusts the arm he's got around Geralt to take his weight a little better, and then they're comfortable. </p><p>Geralt looks at the bright waxing moon outside the windows and listens to the crickets out on the grounds, singing their last few chirps before the crisp early autumn turns too cold for them. He wonders if he can stay here in Emhyr's arms for the rest of the three days they have until Ciri gets back from Vengerberg, unmoving. He had plans for the next few days: drink leftover White Gull cocktails in the hot tub, learn Ciri's favorite caramel apple cake recipe from the chef, test out the new resistance machine in the gym, and get his garden ready for the mini greenhouse that the groundskeeper will soon put over it to protect it through the upcoming chilly season. Geralt offhandedly commented during his last visit that his garden could use some arenaria, and after Emhyr finished pounding him into the mattress a few hours ago, he cleaned Geralt up with a wet towel and then told him the groundskeeper would provide him with some arenaria seeds tomorrow. But even with all that, staying in bed with Emhyr unmoving is starting to feel like the most appealing way to spend three days. Emhyr lightly kisses Geralt's hair, and Geralt thinks he might be able to stay here forever. </p><p>"How is your progress on your book?" Emhyr asks after a bit. The phrasing makes Geralt huff in amusement, and he wants to say something sarcastic about starting to submit formal reports like Ciri does, but he can't guarantee Emhyr wouldn't actually take him up on that offer. </p><p>"Going okay," Geralt answers, which is maybe an overly optimistic portrayal of the reality, but just thinking about it is stressing him out and he doesn't want to go too far into it. Not when he's enjoying himself in his post-orgasmic haze inside their bubble. "Lots of work. Little rough. But okay." </p><p>"Good." Emhyr tilts Geralt's chin up with two fingers and kisses his forehead. His lips are a lot softer than they look like they'd be, and Geralt blinks slowly like a pleased cat. "I knew you would do well." </p><p>Praise and encouragement from Emhyr feels a lot better than it has any right to. Geralt tells himself he doesn't give a fuck about what Emhyr thinks of him - his personality, his habits, his choices, his parenting, his crude language, his lifestyle, his hollow bank account, or the million other things Emhyr gives him that infuriating haughty judgemental look over - but deep down he knows he tells himself not to care because the man is so damn critical. If Geralt let himself get torn up every time Emhyr started picking him apart, he'd be a little pile of shreds on the ground in front of the snooty bastard's Nazairian leather dress shoes. Emhyr treats Geralt's life like one of his consulting projects sometimes, talks to Geralt like he's the Chief Executive Whatever of a failing company, and points out everything he's supposedly doing wrong and tells him how he should fix it until Geralt snaps out something like <em>fuck off, and don't try to invoice me for 2000 crowns an hour</em>. The only person Emhyr's not harsh on is Ciri, and damn right he's not, because if he was ever mean to Geralt's little girl then his body would never be found. But how critical Emhyr is, how hard he is to please, how difficult it is to get a scrap of approval from him, is why his support feels so good. And Geralt hates that. </p><p>"Couple more months to go. Guess we'll find out if I can stick the landing," Geralt replies, yawning as he closes his eyes. It's not too warm in the bedroom, with a cool autumn breeze coming in from a partially-opened window, but he knows he'll probably wake up overheated and sticky with sweat and a little disgruntled if he stays clung to Emhyr like this. Geralt runs hot, and their shared body heat will end up uncomfortable eventually, but that's a problem for eventually. He doesn't plan on letting go or allowing himself to be peeled off. </p><p>Emhyr doesn't seem to want to let Geralt go either. And Geralt loves being the only person Emhyr holds like this, the only person he lies in bed with like this, the only person he keeps overnight like this, the only person he allows to see him like this. He knows he is, because Emhyr slurred that confession into his ear two visits ago when they were lounging on the living room floor staring up at the blurry crystal chandelier after several too many glasses of heady Beauclair wine. Geralt woke up the next morning aching and terribly sick without any other clear memories of that alcohol-swirled night, but that one stuck in his throbbing head in vivid detail. He never brought it up again, figuring that either Emhyr had forgotten about it or hoped Geralt had. Sometimes Geralt wishes he had. But sometimes it's one of the most precious pieces of knowledge he has. Like now, when Geralt can think about how he's the only person Emhyr wouldn't let go of. </p><p>Emhyr's voice is low and soft as he rests his head on Geralt's. "I know you can."  </p><p>Maybe he can.</p><p>Yeah. Maybe he can.</p><p>Geralt sits up sharply, gasping and wheezing for breath as he casts frantic glances through the darkness around him, looking for the threat that's making his heart pound and his body shake violently. He doesn't know what the threat is or why it's there, just that his instincts are telling him it <em>is</em> there, and he doesn't know why he doesn't remember where he is or what's happening. Why his mind is a blank before this moment. His impulses are urging him to run, but he doesn't know where he could run that would be safe. If there's even anywhere to run. If the threat is lurking right beside him, just waiting for him to try to run, knowing he can't escape it. Geralt sobs for air, and struggles to remember through the panic before it's too late. </p><p>Silver light reveals the scene around Geralt slowly, the dark shapes of indistinguishable furniture looming out of the dark. He snaps his head to the side, towards the source of it, and sees the moon brilliant and heavy in the sky. There's a figure sitting between him and the moon, and the realization that it's a human makes Geralt's heartbeat jump in alarm before his mind and his eyes clear enough to take in the details. Black hair with a grey streak, smoothed back by hasty fingers. Amber eyes, shadowed but clear. A strong nose. And an impassive expression. Emhyr. Geralt's shoulders slump as he becomes aware of the silk sheets and thin duvet yanked loose and tangled around his legs, like he's been thrashing around. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but it's pretty obvious what happened here. </p><p>Another fucking nightmare. Like Geralt hasn't had enough of those, and Emhyr hasn't seen enough of them. </p><p>Emhyr strokes Geralt's arm as he trembles, progressing to rubbing his bare back when he's a little more aware of his surroundings and a little less volatile. Geralt hunches over, tangling a hand into the messy mop of sweat-soaked white hair that's half ruffled up from his writhing and half plastered to his forehead and cheeks. He lowers his head to let the frizzy strands fall forward and obscure his face, still panting for breath. He doesn't know how long Emhyr's been awake watching him flail and grimace and whimper. Emhyr knows better than to try to wake Geralt up before his brain does, because that will scare him even worse and he'll lash out violently at whatever's making noise or touching him. Just because Emhyr is understanding about this whole thing doesn't mean Geralt's not still embarrassed every time it happens. He wonders if Emhyr knows he's the only person Geralt will sleep in the same bed with, because he's the only person Geralt will risk having a nightmare in front of. Hopefully he had some control over his drunk mouth and didn't tell Emhyr <em>that</em> after those glasses of wine. </p><p>The nightmare comes back to Geralt slowly. And then another one, and then another one, until he figures out there were multiple - or maybe one long one made up of several different scenarios that flowed into each other. It doesn't matter which. Geralt runs back over them, wishing he didn't remember all his nightmares so clearly. The emotions always stay with them, and take a while to fade. The replay is vivid. Geralt's horrified and devastated as he watches the pages of his cryptid book rip themselves loose from the spine and then tear until there's nothing but dust, and then the invisible hands shredding them take the big charcoal-smudged and wrinkly sharp-nailed shapes of Dettlaff's and Regis's. He's frantic and hurt as he reaches out to hold onto Yennefer while she dissolves into wisps of lilac mist, saying in the voice of a lawyer from six years ago that Geralt's not good enough to raise Ciri and he should give her to someone who can take care of her. Bullets are piercing every part of his body, embedding themselves in his intestines and his muscles and his skull as Calanthe crumples behind him and he can't save her. And then he's terrified, so fucking terrified, as Ciri - god, <em>Ciri</em> - </p><p>"Ciri," Geralt rasps out, blinded and half-wild with fear. He sees Ciri in the snow, walking towards the horizon like she can't hear his calls for her to come back, and she has a long hunting knife in her hand but Geralt knows it's not going to be enough to save her from whatever is waiting for her on the other side of the wall of frost she's heading for, and - no, the frost is the danger, and it's too late, Ciri has walked into it and it's too late. Geralt trembles from the cold of the frost and the loss of his daughter, god, his <em>daughter</em>. It's not real, it's a dream, but that doesn't mean something else couldn't be real, and - "Ciri. Need to call Ciri." </p><p>"It's three o'clock in the morning," Emhyr says, and his hand on Geralt's back isn't doing enough to comfort him anymore. Nothing could be enough if Ciri is in danger. "She'll be asleep. Don't wake her." </p><p>Geralt knows Emhyr is probably right, but he's having trouble feeling like it's true. "Need to know she's okay." </p><p>"If she was not, then she or her coaches or chaperones would have called one of us," Emhyr reasons. Geralt wants to believe him, but his brain's not operating on logic right now. He's always protective of his daughter, always worried something is going to happen to her, and the terror he felt watching nightmare-Ciri walk towards some unknown terrible fate is overwhelming. Geralt used to hate how calm Emhyr was about Ciri's safety, especially when she's traveling, figuring it meant he didn't care about Ciri enough and accusing him of not giving a shit what happens to their child. But then, against his will, he got to know Emhyr more. And he understood that Emhyr's way of caring is making sure he can handle any situation that might come up in the way that's best for Ciri, which means not freaking out about things. Emhyr's approach seems to be not worrying unless there's a reason to, and then keeping his emotions perfectly under control and doing whatever has to be done when there is a reason to. Usually Geralt can keep his emotions under control too - he's even had people tell him to his face that he doesn't have feelings, so he probably should've known better than to do that to Emhyr even though the man is an asshole - but not when it comes to Ciri. Ciri's the one exception. Geralt can't keep from worrying about his little girl. </p><p>"Or maybe something happened, and nobody knew about it, so they wouldn't call us. Could've..." Geralt trails off, knowing it sounds like he's looking for some far-fetched way to convince them both that their daughter's in danger when she's probably perfectly fine. But his mind is still throwing out disjointed scenarios that chill him to the core. </p><p>"It's not impossible," Emhyr concedes, because <em>everything's going to be fine</em> bullshit doesn't work on Geralt, and Emhyr's not the type for it anyway. "But it is highly unlikely. You know as well as I how secure their trips are, both from the information session and Cirilla's complaints about being "helicopter parented" by her coaches and chaperones and roommates. I'm confident she is being properly monitored." </p><p>Geralt nods, concentrating on the feeling of Emhyr's fingers running over his shoulder blade. He remembers that information session, for parents whose daughter had made the soccer team. Geralt and Emhyr had sat all the way across the room from each other in Ard Carraigh Imperial Academy's main auditorium, but then the coach called them both over to talk to them and the seats filled up behind them, leaving them stuck sitting together trying to pretend they didn't know each other and that they weren't acutely aware of each other's presence the whole time. It's almost funny, looking back on it. Geralt's breathing starts to slow as he thinks about the safeguards they discussed at the session, Ciri whining after every trip about hourly check-ins and buddy systems, and Ciri squealing and leaping into his arms when he told her she could join the team. Emhyr is good at things like this: he can appeal to Geralt's logic when his overwhelming need to protect Ciri's wellbeing starts to override it. And it seems like Emhyr should be one of the least comforting people in the world, but unfortunately, Geralt keeps finding the opposite is true. </p><p>The next few years are going to be hard. Geralt doesn't know how he'll handle Ciri going off to university. Her soccer trips and field trips have helped prepare him for it, but they've also shown him that he's still not ready. Whether she goes to Ceas'raet University like Emhyr wants, or University of Vengerberg where Yennefer is, or Brugge University in Temeria or Battle Hill University in Sodden or Ducal College in Beauclair or everywhere else she's hypothesized about heading off to, she'll be away from Geralt, and he's going to worry. He knows he can't call her constantly, especially not in the middle of the night. And thinking of being all alone with his daughter off somewhere making an adult life for herself, Geralt finds himself thinking that maybe, every once in a while, he could call Emhyr. Maybe he'd have to provoke a fight to do it, or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he could just call and say he wanted to talk about their daughter and it would be fine. And it's a bad idea to let himself think of Emhyr as a source of emotional support, because Emhyr is a dick and he's never around and they <em>don't get along</em>, but then they have a moment like this - even if it's just because of the sex - and it's easy to push aside the arguments and the prying and the baggage and everything that's not Emhyr's hand trailing down the bare ridges of his spine to rest on his lower back. </p><p>"What if she wasn't okay?" Geralt says quietly, keeping his eyes on the black sheets tangled around his legs so he doesn't have to see Emhyr's face softened by pity and the moonlight. "If something did happen?" </p><p>"Then we would analyze the situation, rationally determine the course of action that would be best for Cirilla's wellbeing, develop a strategy, and jointly execute it to the best of our abilities," Emhyr replies. Geralt can't help but snort a little, because Emhyr has to sound like a strategy consultant even when he's talking about something like saving their daughter's life. But he also sounds like a good father. A good partner. </p><p>"Think we'd do okay?" Geralt asks, lifting his head a bit. Not enough to look at Emhyr, but enough to see a few stars out the window as some of his hair slips out of his face. </p><p>"I can't say," Emhyr admits. It's not the most reassuring answer he could've given, especially since he's competent enough to overthrow the government of a medium-sized country and take it over if he wants to, but it feels better to hear than some bullshit <em>I can do anything</em> response. That even Emhyr var Emreis, one of the Continent's top strategists, doesn't have all the answers to this parenting thing. Doesn't know how to handle child-rearing with complete certainty. Isn't going to pretend he's completely undefeatable by whatever the process of daughter-raising might throw his way. Is willing to admit that he and Geralt are in this together. "But we would do everything in our power. Combined, our power would be formidable indeed." </p><p>Geralt starts to smile, so he ducks his head and lets his hair fall around his face again. It might be nice if they handled more things combined, not dividing everything up like they do now. And if an emergency came up, maybe they could deal with it. Emhyr is brilliant and powerful and determined and ruthless and one of the most capable people on the Continent. He spends his life resolving major crises and solving high-stakes problems and facilitating nearly impossible things, and he does it all with a composure that most people wouldn't be able to muster in situations one-hundredth as stressful. Or terrifying. When Emhyr sets his mind to something, it happens. Geralt might not like Emhyr, and might never accept the way he came back into his and Ciri's lives, but he's willing to admit something too: if he had to pick one ally during the biggest possible crisis, one person to join him in assuring his daughter's safety in the worst case scenario, he'd pick Emhyr. </p><p>After a bit, Geralt uncurls. His back has stiffened up from the hunched-over posture, because he's getting old and he's already stressed it by having several rounds of vigorous sex in body-straining positions. He might be in amazing shape, might still be pretty athletic overall, but he's a lot more flexible when he's getting fucked than he is in the aftermath of that fucking. He winces, stretches, and finally gets his spine fully upright. Emhyr wraps an arm around him, and Geralt rests his head on his shoulder. </p><p>"Can you fall back asleep?" Emhyr asks, after a while. </p><p>"No," Geralt mumbles. "Gonna meditate." </p><p>"I'll leave you to it." Emhyr kisses Geralt's hair, and then squeezes his shoulders before getting up. Emhyr tugs the blankets out of their tangle around Geralt and spreads them back out over the bed, tucking the edges of the sheets under the mattress. Watching Emhyr do housework, no matter how brief and simple, is strange. It feels like he shouldn't know how to make a bed, like a life of housekeepers and butlers and nannies should've rendered him confused and helpless in the presence of displaced blankets. But Emhyr doesn't frown or grouse or disdainfully tell Geralt what a mess he's made and what an inconvenience he is, like Geralt would usually expect him to. Instead, he fixes the sheets and duvet for Geralt without a single comment, and then retrieves the pillow Geralt hadn't realized he somehow flung across the bed during his thrashing. Geralt takes it from him with a look in his eyes that might be a little too grateful, and leans it up against the headboard as Emhyr walks off to the bathroom. </p><p>Geralt grabs his hair tie off the bedside table, where Emhyr tossed it several hours ago. He'd yanked it out of Geralt's hair after shoving his recently stripped body onto the bed, then opened the top drawer of that same nightstand and dropped a bottle of lube on his bare abdomen without even looking at him. It made Geralt feel degraded in an amazing way, a way Emhyr's so good at making him feel. A way he loves to feel. Emhyr makes him feel so many ways he loves to feel. Geralt ties his hair up into a messy bun, concentrating on the unpleasant feeling of the tangled and sweaty strands to ground himself. Without Emhyr here, he's starting to feel small and cold in the big bed. Geralt's naked, and the rapidly sharpening breeze is cooling the sweat drying on his skin and making him shiver. He gets a little lost in it all, the dark room with its imposing shapes and chilly air, so he's startled when Emhyr appears beside him. Emhyr drapes a warm and incredibly soft bathrobe over Geralt's shoulders, then returns to his own side of the bed. Geralt pulls the plush robe on and ties it shut, and his shivering stops. </p><p>The mattress dips and shifts as Emhyr lays down and finds a comfortable position, and Geralt waits until he's sure Emhyr's eyes are closed to look over at him. He looks at Emhyr for a bit, almost reaches out to brush his fingers over that grey streak in his hair he loves so much, then assumes his meditation stance and closes his own eyes. The kneeling pose hurts his overworked right knee, the old injury radiating sharp pangs, but he's been meditating in this same pose for thirty years and he can't imagine changing it now. Not when he desperately needs the calm that his meditation brings. </p><p>Geralt and Emhyr know each other so well. They can't make themselves admit it to each other, but they care about each other so much. They'd never say it in words, but they want each other.  Maybe, by now, they need each other. They're very bad for each other, but sometimes they're so good for each other that Geralt can't stand it. It's so good it almost makes Geralt angry. Emhyr always does this thing where he shows up and acts like Geralt's husband for a while, then disappears again for months and argues with Geralt over the phone and as soon as they're finally reunited in person. And Geralt always does this thing where he seduces Emhyr and cuddles up to him and doesn't let go of him, but only after picking fights with him and making sure he knows how insufferable he is. It'd be pathetic if it wasn't so sad. That facsimile of a marriage they can achieve for a while, during the fucking and the cuddling and between the arguments, is so good. They'd be perfect together, if they weren't so terrible together. That's the saddest part of all. That's what makes it so hard that they can't be more than this. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Geralt's never been a fan of holidays. They're all an annoyance to him, no matter what they're celebrating or when they're doing it: beginning of the year, middle of the year, end of the year, doesn't matter. They're loud, they put energy in the air, they cause garish decorations to appear everywhere, and they make people act more friendly when Geralt inevitably has to slink down from his blissfully isolated forest hill house to do inconvenient stuff like buy food and put fuel in his truck. He never had a reason to care about holidays before he adopted Ciri, and just when he thought finally having someone to celebrate with would mean he'd have to make himself start caring in order to keep from crushing a child's dreams, Ciri informed him she didn't care about holidays either. So Geralt's been happy to avoid the usual calendar-based excuses for merriment. </p><p>It turns out, though, that Regis is a big fan of what he calls "the extended period of joyful end-of-year festivity". Geralt, in the spirit of not killing people's joy and festivity, didn't tell him that he feels the exact opposite. And that's how Geralt's ended up in a downtown Daevon tearoom that's completely decked out for the holidays, bustling with seasonal cheer and laughter and upbeat jazz music, hoping Regis and Dettlaff will show up soon to distract him from it. </p><p>Geralt, Regis, and Dettlaff are supposed to be going over notes and art for <em>Chapter 8: Ureus the Cemetaur</em> tonight. Geralt can't believe they're revising Chapter 8 already. The past four chapters have been kind of a blur, as have the past four months. It feels like he was sitting hunched over the messy desk in his home office one afternoon in September, blinked, and then when he opened his eyes it was December. He knows there was time in there, though, because he has memories from those four months. They're mostly of writing, though. Or editing. Or suffering. The book. Geralt's still consumed almost entirely by the book. That blur has been broken up by the occasional outing, either to attend one of Ciri's soccer games or meet with Dettlaff and Regis, but even his pleasant phone calls with his book team and his antagonistic phone calls with Emhyr have blended into the background. Ciri's soccer games are nice because she has fun, Geralt is proud of her, and his little star striker always turns out an excellent performance even on the very rare occasions the Ard Carraigh Imperial Academy girls team loses a game. Emhyr's phone calls are nice because Geralt gets to unleash his pent-up aggression and stress on a target that really deserves it. And Dettlaff and Regis's calls and meetups with him are nice because -</p><p>- well. </p><p>"Geralt!" Regis's voice calls out, light and cheerful. Geralt looks up to see his editor and illustrator approaching the corner where he's set up camp, burrowing himself in a plush red armchair by the crackling fireplace with a cup of hot chai tea. There are plants hanging in the big window of the tearoom, wreaths and boughs twined with red ribbons and bows, and the snow piling up outside is glistening like a prism from the string of multicolored lights wrapped around the nearby lamp post. Maybe Geralt can see why Regis likes winter holidays. Kind of. Regis waves as he pulls Dettlaff over by the hand, as if Geralt wasn't already looking right at him. Unable to look anywhere but the two of them. "Lovely evening, isn't it?"</p><p>Regis and Dettlaff are both covered with some degree of snow. Gradually melting snowflakes stand out on Dettlaff's black hair and peacoat, and Regis's green plaid scarf is coated in them like he might've dropped it on his way in and then shaken it off and put it right back on. Both of their noses and cheeks are pink with the cold, which makes Regis look endearingly jolly and is very attractive on Dettlaff's sharp features. The fire snapping away beside Geralt gets too warm when Regis rests a hand heavily on his shoulder, looking directly into his eyes and smiling. Geralt had figured the lovely evening question was rhetorical, but in case it wasn't, he nods blankly. Regis squeezes Geralt's shoulder, letting his hand linger there for a moment, as Dettlaff gives Geralt one of his usual intense greeting looks and dips of the head. Then Regis removes his hand and both he and Dettlaff turn away, lost in a shuffle of cloth as they take their coats and scarves off. </p><p>And <em>that's</em> why it's nice to meet with Dettlaff and Regis. Probably too nice. It gets nicer every time Geralt sees them. </p><p>"I'll fetch tea," Dettlaff announces, instinctively turning his head for the grateful kiss Regis presses to his cheek. Regis settles himself in one of the armchairs across from Geralt as Dettlaff walks to the front counter to obtain drinks for himself and Regis. Dettlaff's knee-high leather boots and long cardigan sweater make him look so tall, and combined with the elegance of his confident posture, he cuts a figure that Geralt has to quickly snap his eyes away from when he realizes it looks like he's staring at Dettlaff's ass right in front of his partner. </p><p>Regis has a knowing smile on his face when Geralt's flickering eyes land on it. "Handsome man, is he not?" Geralt doesn't know what to make of that look, and he can't tell if the question is a trap. He has a feeling he'll be setting a trap for himself, and personally stepping into it, if he tries to answer. But Dettlaff is handsome, and they both know it, and Geralt can't just not admit it. So he nods, keeping his mouth shut tightly, and lets Regis chuckle at him. "How lucky we both are to be in the perfect position to enjoy the view. Well, to eliminate the impending risk of a sappy old man waxing poetic about the many enticing attributes of his beloved while surrounded by several tempting sprigs of mistletoe, I will turn my attention to business. Geralt, how do you feel you are doing at this stage of the eventful journey that is <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy?</em>" </p><p>The music in the background picks up, smooth saxophone and jingling bells both kicking in together, and Geralt tries to think over it. Or maybe he's trying to think over Regis's chuckle, which is still stuck in his mind because of how confusing a reaction it was to Geralt unintentionally ogling Dettlaff. What Geralt manages to come up with, after what's probably too long of a pause, is, "Writing Chapter 9. It's not great, but it's almost done. Hoping I'll be able to say that about the whole book soon." </p><p>"Why would you hope to say the book isn't great?" Regis looks perplexed, which makes sense, given that Geralt wouldn't actually want to say that. He just can't put words together right now. Though that's not a major departure from the usual. This is why Geralt could never be a real writer, and why he's not great at interacting with people socially. "Ah, I see - I misconstrued your sentence structure. You are simply hoping to say the book is <em>done</em>. Yes, I can sympathize with that sentiment. This point in the book, about three-quarters through the writing, can be rough. I won't sugarcoat it; our work is far from over, and it will not get any easier from here. But before any of us know it, the book will be completed. And then we can sit back, rest, and read the rave reviews." </p><p>"You can read the reviews. Think I'll pass on them," Geralt says. The thought of people writing reviews for <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> makes him nervous. He tries to forget that's a thing that's going to happen. Even if he knew where to find those reviews, since he's assuming the big newspapers he knows about aren't going to do write-ups of some random guy's weird monster book, he wouldn't want to read them. Geralt just wants to put the book out there, and after that point, he's out of the process. People can do whatever they want with the book, think whatever they want about it, and say whatever they want about it. If they like it, Geralt will make money and maybe get asked to contribute more things to other people's projects. If they hate it, Geralt will use up anything that might be left of his advance and then go back to being a metalworker. Either way, he'll remain blissfully oblivious about the exact phrasing people might use to tell the world they hate the random guy's weird monster book. </p><p>"A writer, passing on reviews?" Regis his eyebrows, his mouth in a partly-open expression of surprise that shows a several of his sharp teeth. "I've never heard of such a thing. Whyever would you turn reviews, one of the literary world's most coveted and precious commodities, aside?" </p><p>Geralt shrugs, taking a spicy sip of his hot chai tea. If Geralt was a writer, or part of the "literary world", maybe Regis would be right to be surprised. But people who are only pretending to be writers operate differently. Geralt cares about three people's reviews: Ciri's, Regis's, and Dettlaff's. If Ciri enjoys the book Geralt is writing for her, and if Dettlaff and Regis are happy with their work on it, then that's what counts. By the time critic and reader reviews are being written, it'll be too late to do anything about the feedback in them. "Doesn't matter too much. The book will be what it is. What people think about it... that's their business." </p><p>"An unusual approach, but in character with what I know of you. Your modest and reticent attitude towards the book-producing process, along with your humility, have been refreshing. Though perhaps there has been an excess of humility." Regis gives Geralt that sympathetic look that he still doesn't understand, but it's generally come in combination with Regis touching him so he doesn't mind it at all. Sure enough, Regis reaches over to give Geralt's hand one of his encouraging pats, and Geralt holds it out much faster than he should. He's starting to develop the kind of instincts Dettlaff has for what will make Regis offer him physical contact. He can admit he developed the eagerness for it a while ago, maybe several months ago. "If you don't wish to read reviews, I'll respect your wishes. But I would ask you to allow me to pass along snippets of well-deserved accolades. There <em>will</em> be accolades, I am certain of it, and I hope you will come to feel encouraged by the thought of seeing them."</p><p>If Regis thinks there will be accolades, then Geralt will let him think that. Personally, he doesn't know, and can't take much of a guess. Regis is so gentle with the way he presses his palm against Geralt's big scarred up one, and Geralt's never had his hands - large and rough and callused from manual labor - treated that way. One of these days, he's going to manage to blush again. </p><p>The scent of chai spices fills the air before Geralt can pick up on the clomp of Dettlaff's heavy winter boots over the generic jazz holiday music and the chatter of the other tearoom patrons. He hears them, dampened by the thick red rug in the corner he's set up camp in, at the same time he gets the additional smell of fresh-baked pastries. Dettlaff's brought over a whole pot of the same tea Geralt's drinking, enough to keep refilling their drinks all night, along with a plate of scones that's also precariously balancing two empty mugs painted with idyllic winter scenes. Regis pulls over a small nearby table, and Dettlaff sets the provisions up. Detlaff tops off Geralt's half-empty mug without being asked, and nudges the scones towards him as he serves himself and Regis tea. Geralt's trying to get used to the way the couple takes care of him, because they're always like this, but he's still struggling with it. Nine months into working with them, and he's still surprised by their habit of "striving to provide writers with assistance in achieving a more productivity-supporting lifestyle" when he's not even working on his writing. </p><p>"Sublime," Regis says, with a pleased sigh, after carefully taking the smallest taste of the steaming hot chai. "Excellent choice of tea flavor, Geralt." </p><p>"Excellent choice of place," Geralt says. It's not his scene at all, not in the least, but he's actually enjoying it now. It's cozy, rather than overdecorated and buzzy, now that his book team has joined him. He would've said it anyway, like he always does because of how good it makes Regis feel to bring his writers to places they like, but it's nice to mean it. "Haven't been somewhere like this in... ever, I think." </p><p>"We had hoped to lighten your spirits," Dettlaff says. It would be a little funny coming from someone as grim as him, if Geralt didn't know how deceiving his appearance is. Every time they might, he finds more depth to Dettlaff's hidden sweetness and gentleness. Their October meetup took a sharp turn when Dettlaff spotted an injured raven on the ground in a park they were passing through, letting out pathetic noises of pain and shivering on the frosty grass, and immediately interrupted their discussion of Voref the Wolf-Beast to rescue it. And maybe that's when Geralt became too far gone: watching Dettlaff lift the bird on his scarf with more tenderness than he'd ever seen before, tuck it into a small wooden box they'd for some reason had in Regis's messenger bag, and hold the box in his lap as Geralt drove them to the nearest bird rescue with Regis giving him directions from his phone. It wasn't until the raven had been safely delivered into the hands of an avian veterinarian that any of them remembered they had been having a professional meeting on work business. Dettlaff just treated the bird's plight with such seriousness that none of them questioned that their whole team needed to go into crisis mode to save it. </p><p>"Spirits lightened," Geralt assures Dettlaff, turning the side of his lips up in a constructed smile he's getting more comfortable with. He inspects the cranberry-orange scones, which he classified by sight because he's never actually had one before. A night of firsts. The thick pastry crumbles as soon as Geralt bites into it, and he scrambles to catch the pieces in the most ridiculous way. He didn't think he'd be using his ex-bodyguard reflexes to avoid embarrassing himself as a crumb-covered mess, but he's glad to have them. He's been told his strange thin cat pupils get blown so wide they nearly overtake his whole irises when he's surprised by something, and he can just tell his are doing that now. Over falling dough. "Fuck. Didn't know it'd do that." </p><p>"Oh, Geralt, my dear. You truly are endearing," Regis says, with such fondness that Geralt would drop the pieces into his lap if his hands weren't so steady from decades of a life where letting things slip from his grasp potentially meant dismemberment or death. "Impressive save. And, if you don't mind my saying, fascinating and beautiful eyes. Now, why don't you finish up that scone while I get my notes out?" </p><p>Geralt nods without looking up from the scone pieces, his ears flushing out of control under his snow-frizzed white hair, and forces himself to focus on the doughy taste of the pastry and the chewiness of the cranberries and orange peels so he won't think about what Regis said. He's had to adopt that as a strategy in recent times: awareness meditation to keep from getting flustered by some of the compliments that Regis and Dettlaff give him. Luckily, he's been meditating to block things out since he was sixteen and briefly living under a bridge as part of a rodent pack after making the ill-thought-out choice to run away from his last foster family and hide out until adulthood. After that experience, something he'd call <em>flirting</em> if it wasn't coming from professional colleagues in a long-term relationship should be no problem to suppress.</p><p>And yet. </p><p>"Much to my horror, my favorite green pens were discontinued in favor of a supposedly "upgraded" model. While I can admit the shape and material of the new grip is marginally improved, the change in the formulation of the ink sent me positively reeling. I was forced to accustom myself to a new consistency! The much-vaunted "smoother glide" required adjusting my writing pressure to prevent the tip of the pen from sliding clear across the page. Thankfully the color was left unchanged, or I may have been debilitatingly staggered. But, despite that jarring and disorienting setback, I pushed on bravely for the sake of providing you with the same level and quality of mark-ups that you are used to." Regis shakes his head, holding up the stack of papers he pulled out of his messenger bag so Geralt can see the consequences of the pen maker's decision. Geralt's not wearing his glasses and wouldn't be able to pick out an ink formulation change even if he was, but he nods solemnly anyway. Regis told him once that editors are "peculiar and particular creatures, prone to burrowing irretrievably into the deepest trenches of habit", so he gets the theory behind why altering one's editing tools could inflict psychological damage on then. Regis gives the papers a lingering look of regret, then puts them down on a cleared corner of the table. "As always, the floor is open for questions or comments you may have on any topic, book or otherwise, before we delve into the overview and then specifics." </p><p>"No questions. Go ahead," Geralt confirms. He's been looking forward to this. That is, listening to Regis talk about writing. Regis gets so animated and caught up in what he's saying that he tends to carry himself away, getting more and more excited as he goes on. Geralt wonders what it would be like to get that enthusiastic about anything; it looks like a good time, but also like it consumes a level of mental energy that would knock him out. More and more, it's starting to amaze rather than intimidate Geralt that Regis - one of the smartest people he's ever met, incredibly well-read, makes a living by consuming and analyzing professional writing - gets that exuberant about <em>Geralt's</em> writing. The barely coherent scrawls of his weird monster book. </p><p>"Well, the story was delightful. Thrilling as always. And I know you had expressed concern regarding how heavily this chapter was based on interviews, as you wanted to ensure that your subjects' thoughts and feelings were properly represented and that you handled their frightening experiences in a sensitive manner. Reading through this chapter and the interviews upon which it was based, I would say you did an excellent job. You held great empathy for your interviewees, and it showed through. But, of course, that was nearly a given for someone as kind-hearted and open-minded as yourself." Regis smiles, and Geralt is floored at the thought of someone like Regis - or anyone - thinking he's kind-hearted and open-minded. Geralt's been told over and over that he's gruff, unfriendly, standoffish, scary-looking, devoid of social skills, lacking in the having-feelings department. Regis is the one who's kind-hearted and open-minded, and the fact that he read empathy into Geralt just proves it. Geralt ducks his head, looking at the fuzz of the red rug through the few pieces of hair that have ended up in his face, but he's been trained well enough to reach his hand out for Regis to touch it. Regis rubs a sharp-nailed thumb over the back of Geralt's hand, and the rug looks so alarmingly bright. "Truly, Geralt, one of the most enjoyable parts of this chapter was seeing how you so beautifully and sensitively conveyed stories that your vulnerable subjects wanted the world to know." </p><p>"Glad," Geralt gets out, somehow managing to stunt a one-syllable word. He remembers doing those interviews, on that trip to Temeria last year. The one he came back from to discover that Emhyr had altered his hill, constructed a garage on his property, and bought his sixteen year old daughter a car with the ability to reach racetrack speeds. The trip was one of the most impactful experiences of Geralt's entire cryptid-expert life, precisely because of those interviews. For whatever reason, his interviewees in the little town of Murky Waters who claimed to have encountered Ureus the Cemetaur were all terrified, but wanted to share what they'd experienced. Geralt's never really believed in cryptids, mostly taking the <em>possible they exist but I doubt it</em> approach, but interviewing those subjects was the closest he'd ever gotten to thinking people had actually seen or interacted with the creature they thought they had. It was an honor, and very humbling, that they trusted <em>him</em> to hear the stories they were scared to tell and potentially write them into a book. His main interviewees were a young mother, an old man, and a teenage girl who reminded him too much of Ciri. He'd hugged his daughter the second he got home from Temeria, and he knew how much the interviews had affected him when he felt the need to hold Ciri for a full minute more than the need to call Emhyr and growl at him for turning his home into a construction site and giving their child a wheeled death trap. When that minute was up, though, Emhyr got several pieces of Geralt's mind. Later that night, the teenage girl and the necrophage featured in Geralt's nightmares. </p><p>"Details, then." Regis flips through the stack of papers, the shuffling noise pulling Geralt out of the memories. He gulps down his entire mug of tea, letting the warmth and the spice pull him back into the tearoom. The crackling of the fireplace is calming, balancing out the peppiness of the new piano song and laughter of a loud group that's just come into the tearoom and sat by the door. Dettlaff refills Geralt's tea again, giving him a long scrutinizing look that suggests he can tell Geralt got lost for a second but doesn't want to pry into it. Geralt appreciates that. The firelight brightens up Dettlaff's icy eyes, and casts his white hair streaks into sharp relief. Those damn attractive hair streaks. Dettlaff is - fuck, more than handsome. And Geralt needs to look away. But Dettlaff's magnetic gaze won't let him, and Dettlaff sure won't be the one to look away first. He never is. Luckily for Geralt, Regis makes an <em>aha!</em> noise, and holds up a paper covered from top to bottom in that perfect green cursive. "Here it is. My initial impressions, followed by a wide assortment of details. Incidentally, the last page I was able to write in my old variety of green pen. A worthy end for it, I suppose, though unwelcome and untimely nonetheless. Ah, well, times change. Shall I?"</p><p>"Yeah. Shall," Geralt stumbles out, finally looking away from Dettlaff with the haste and guilt of someone who feels like they've done something wrong. "I mean. Details. Would love to hear them." </p><p>Regis goes through his notes and analysis with his usual level of gesticulation and exclamations and energy. He runs through through what's on the pages, fleshes out the basics, and throws in the occasional "epiphany reached during the process of verbal extrapolation from initial perceptions in the service of a more thorough explanation". Thankfully Geralt is spared an Ureus impression, because as much as he enjoys Regis's hammy acting, after those harrowing interviews and the near-death experience stories and the ensuing nightmares he could do without too many reminders of the mannerisms of this particular beast. Geralt nods along, which is a genuine expression of understanding at several different points rather than just the <em>I acknowledge you're saying words at me</em> gesture it used to be. He's getting better at following Regis's more complicated twists and turns of phrases and tangents, though it took nine months of practice. </p><p>"And, barring any further epiphanies, that concludes my analysis. I apologize if my thoughts seemed a bit disjointed this evening - well, more disjointed than usual; you know I am prone to verbally embarking on journeys through the wilds of the mind. I would like to blame the pen debacle that cast a long shadow over the process of editing this chapter, but sadly, I must admit my mind has been occupied with some rather heavy thoughts today." Regis gives Geralt a smile that he can't interpret, but there's something regretful in it that seems to go deeper than regretting disjointed thoughts. Wistful, maybe. Geralt could be wrong, but either way, he wonders what Regis would have to be wistful about. After a moment, Regis slaps his hands on his thighs. "Well. Such is life. As a philosopher, I am accustomed to bearing heavy burdens of thought. Geralt, shall we discuss my comments?" </p><p>"You did a good job explaining them. Not much to discuss," Geralt says. He looks down into the rich depths of his tea, seeing a few bits of the tea blend that must've slipped through the infuser. They're in the same pattern he arranged the flower leaves in on the table of the garden café back in August. It makes him feel wistful enough to look up at Regis and Dettlaff and admit, "My mind's been a bit occupied too." </p><p>"Anything you'd like to unburden yourself of?" Regis asks, kindly. His black eyes are shining in the light from the fire, the flickering flame adding an extra dimension to their depths, and Geralt starts to drift into them before shaking his head. Geralt wishes he could unburden himself of the the thoughts in the literal sense, shaking them out of his head or shrugging them off his back, but it doesn't work like that. Unburdening himself in the figurative sense, talking about his problems, has never been his thing.</p><p>"Stuff I have to work through myself." Geralt takes one of the cranberry-orange scones off the plate and shoves most of it into his mouth in one bite, taking the risk of crumbling a pastry all over himself again as a tradeoff for having an excuse not to talk if Regis tries to nudge him into "spreading the weight of one's woes among those who are more than willing to relieve the pressure by carrying them" like his failed attempt in November. Luckily, this attempt at scone eating goes better. They're not Geralt's favorite thing, but they're good enough and he's starving after missing two meals today. And thankfully, Regis doesn't nudge him. The three of them sip their tea and finish the scones together in uncharacteristic silence, letting the plinking piano and upbeat drums of the background music and the energetic conversations of other patrons provide noise to avoid dead air. Dettlaff refills their mugs when they get low, and makes sure Geralt gets most of the scones. Finally, because Geralt's starting to get unnerved by Regis actually being quiet for once, Geralt says, "Would love to take a look at Dettlaff's art." </p><p>Dettlaff opens Regis's messenger bag and gets out his sketchbook as Geralt sets down his tea and settles back in the plush red armchair. It's much kinder on his back than his horrible desk chair is, but not very kind on his painful right knee. He's been thinking lately that he should get a brace for it, but that won't do much about the way it aches in the cold. Dettlaff does that thing where he opens the sketchbook to the right page on instinct, then offers it to Geralt. Geralt wants to ask him how he does that, but the answer is probably just artist senses or Dettlaff senses. He anticipates the next use of Dettlaff senses, which is that searching-for-reaction look. </p><p>Geralt looks down at the charcoal pencil drawings, and is surprised to see rough sketches with the day's date in the upper right corner. For some reason, Dettlaff has handed him his daily practice. Geralt would think it's a mistake, except Dettlaff never makes mistakes like that. He always knows the right page. Geralt looks the drawings over: a pine wreath accented with berries and ribbons and what he guesses are vampire orchid petals, sharp-nailed fingertips that seem to be Regis's sticking out of a pair of plaid fingerless gloves, snowflakes windswept over a streetlamp, and - Geralt. Geralt in profile, with a lot of attention paid to getting the exact shape of his sharp jaw and uneven bridge of his nose and the usual length of his beard. His scar is perfectly jagged, and his visible cat-pupiled eye is once again colored with gold pencil among the black and white. Geralt stares at it, and is confused by how handsome the sketch looks. Dettlaff's drawings are always frighteningly accurate, and he doesn't shy away from the uglier details of his subjects, so Geralt can't explain what it is about the charcoal Geralt that makes it look so much more handsome than him. And he's confused by knowing that's how Dettlaff sees him. </p><p>"They're good. All your art is good. Really good," Geralt says. He remembers Dettlaff saying back in August <em>every day I draw what is on my mind</em>, and wants to ask Dettlaff why Geralt's eyes are the only thing in his sketchbook he colors. But he doesn't, because he doesn't know that. Dettlaff never colors the cryptids or daily practices he shows Geralt, but that means he doesn't color other things that Geralt never sees. And it'd be awkward to assume. </p><p>"I draw exactly what I see," Dettlaff says. He lets Geralt have one last long look at the golden-eyed charcoal Geralt before taking back the sketchbook, flipping it to a different page, and handing it back. This time it's Ureus the Cemetaur. "Or what I read." </p><p>Dettlaff definitely did draw what he read, because the sketch looks exactly like Geralt's understanding of the graveir. It seems like it's been plucked straight out of the extremely unsettling mental images Geralt had while writing about Ureus. The drooling mouth full of jagged and uneven spike-like teeth, the empty and faintly glowing eyes, the wrinkled semi-translucent skin, the sharp black fingernails and toenails. It's all there, and all very accurate.</p><p>"Is it satisfactory?" Dettlaff asks, tilting his head with his brow furrowed between his sharp blue eyes, and Geralt realizes he's taking a long time to give his opinion.</p><p>"It's perfect. Looks exactly like Ureus. Creeps me out even looking at the sketch. Don't change a thing," Geralt replies, stroking the paper beside the Ureus with his fingertip like he always does when he gets the overwhelming urge to feel all the textures the drawn creature doesn't actually have. This time, though, he's satisfied with the paper. "Can't wait to see the final. It's gonna look great in paint." </p><p>"I will do my best. As I always do for you." Dettlaff brushes his big fingers against Geralt's when he retrieves the sketchbook from them, and it sends a rush of warmth and tingling through Geralt's hand that's becoming very familiar. He questions whether it's an accident when Dettlaff touches him casually like that, because he's clearly not as tactile as Regis, but Dettlaff's artist hands are just as steady as Geralt's. And the man is so purposeful that he never makes careless gestures during their interactions. It has to be on purpose. </p><p>Thinking about that is what makes Geralt's lips loosen, against his better judgement. He knows the answer to the question he's about to ask, because Dettlaff told him. He told him months ago. But still, something is tugging on the corner of Geralt's mind, something that's wondering if anything has changed or been added to that answer within the four months since then. Hesitantly, Geralt says, "Drawn me twice now. Any particular reason?" </p><p>"I find you inspiring," Dettlaff says, looking right into Geralt's eyes. Geralt's mind trips over something invisible and falls and keeps looking at Dettlaff like that will help him figure out how to get back up. Dettlaff, by his and his partner's admissions, finds everything inspiring. Leaves, bugs, crumpled up newspapers. And his drawing of Geralt was in the middle of a ring of plants, fingernails, and windblown frozen water. But those too were things Dettlaff found noteworthy enough to draw, and one of them was part of Regis. Somehow, Geralt doesn't think Dettlaff would tell a crumpled up newspaper with complete seriousness, "I've drawn you many times, because you continue to be inspiring to me." </p><p><em>Many times</em>. More than twice. More than Geralt knows. </p><p>"You inspire me as well." Regis's tone suggests he can tell Geralt is overwhelmed by what Dettlaff said, and is purposely adding onto the pile. It's impossible to make anything of that with the way Geralt's mind is still on the ground where it tripped and fell. "For many reasons. Not just because of who you are as a person, a father, and a writer - though you are quite admirable in all of those roles, and become more admirable the more I learn about you - but because you are on a tremendous journey. Speaking as someone who also began a new career journey later in life, around your age - though forty-five years old feels like a spring chicken compared to where I find myself over a decade later - I know how difficult that process is, both to begin and to continue, and I admire you for undertaking it." </p><p>Regis is talking about his switch from academia and botanical medicine to editing, Geralt knows. That time Regis looked around at his life as a prestigious researcher, professor, and philosopher and then decided to start over on a completely new path. And it worked out, because Regis has made it to a great editor position at a well-regarded publisher in a job market that's hard to get a foothold in. It's not a surprise, considering how intelligent and hardworking and educated he is, but it's impressive anyway. <em>That's</em> an actual career journey: Regis working his way up to the top of two fields, leaping down from them, and then working his way up towards the top of another. Not whatever Geralt's doing, quitting the metalworking job he stumbled into to burn through an advance from a publisher and hope that by the time it runs out he has something people might want to read. </p><p>Geralt ducks his head, because he can't meet either Dettlaff's or Regis's eyes. He adjusts the sleeves of his black ribbed sweater, the one Ciri gave him two weeks ago because she wanted him to wear something "undamaged and professional" to his parent-teacher conferences and he's still hiding all the outfits Emhyr bought him in the back of his closet and pretending he doesn't have any nice clothes. It seemed like a good compromise for tonight, a balance between looking like a mess and looking like a dress-up doll. He learned his lesson about being too pretty out in the real world. Geralt tugs the sleeves down again, the fidgeting even more obvious for what it is with the way Ciri doesn't actually know his sweater size and the hems already come to halfway down his palms. He mumbles, "Not doing a career journey. Just... writing a book." </p><p>"Are you enjoying the book?" Dettlaff asks, his low voice genuinely inquisitive.</p><p>Geralt's answer should be an immediate <em>yes</em>. Regis and Dettlaff are Geralt's editor and illustrator, the ones working on the damn book with him. He should say yes, so they don't wonder if he's not liking the process they're part of. Or so they don't question whether they should be putting all this time and effort and commitment into this project if Geralt can't immediately say he's enjoying it. But they've long since promised to be honest with each other, and Geralt doesn't want to lie to them. He can't. He <em>wants</em> the answer to be an immediate yes, but it's been so fucking hard lately. Geralt takes his hair out of its half-ponytail to buy himself some time, runs his hand through it to smooth out some of the frizz it got from the drying snow, and then ties it back up. Finally he says, honestly, "Yeah. I'm enjoying the book." </p><p>"Then it could be a career journey, if that's what you want by the end of it." Regis nudges Geralt's hand, and Geralt reaches out only to find his mug of tea being put back into it. It was refilled at some point, though Geralt's not sure when, and he drinks the warm liquid gratefully. The combination of sweetness and spice is grounding. "Or it could simply be writing a book. It's up to you, Geralt. It's what you want." </p><p>Geralt doesn't believe that. He's not sure how much of it is because things don't work like that for him, and how much of it is because the thought of them working like that for him is unsettling. Frightening. Geralt's life has never been about what he wanted to do. It's always been about what he needed to do, or had no choice but to do. Shipped to different foster homes with no input on whether he wanted to go or where he'd end up, running away when he knew he couldn't take another shipping-off, training as a bodyguard since he needed money and his body was the only thing about him that he could get some use out of, becoming a metalworker because his knee was permanently ruined and he had a daughter to provide for. Even the book wasn't Geralt following some kind of dream path; it was Geralt knowing that Ciri was going to lose her mind if he didn't quit his job and do the thing he thought he might enjoy, and acting on it. </p><p>But even if it had been Geralt following his dreams, the "career journey" thing isn't up to him. It's up to whoever may or may not want to publish some hypothetical future writing Geralt hasn't even thought about, and pay him for it. Hell, Geralt's not even sure how he got anyone to take this one. He submitted his <em>got this idea for a book about cryptids...</em> email to nobody in particular at a random publishing house, and spelled a lot of things it wrong. He can't imagine it made a good case for his book idea, or his ability to write it coherently. Somehow he pulled off a goddamn miracle and got whoever's in charge of handling book-picking things to see a scrap of potential in that email. He can't shake the feeling that a lot of people must've collectively made a mistake that went in his favor. But Geralt doesn't want to make Regis feel bad for being nice, and he doesn't want to remind him that the world isn't as kind as Regis clearly wants it to be. Especially to Geralt. So Geralt looks into his tea and says, "Dunno. Maybe." </p><p>"Well, I'd like you to know that I'm enjoying your book as well," Regis says. "Both Dettlaff and I are. And we're enjoying <em>you</em>." </p><p>Geralt blinks, the mind that'd just picked itself up from his mental floor tripping and falling again. Geralt looks at Dettlaff, who gives him an emphatic nod to confirm the statement, then looks back and forth between the two of them. It always throws him off, when Regis does that thing where he implies that he and Dettlaff talk about Geralt and that they say nice things. That they apparently talk about enjoying his book, and <em>enjoying him</em>. He doesn't know what that means. He can't guess what that means. He knows he's enjoying them, but it doesn't seem like Regis could mean that they enjoy him in the same way as he enjoys them. Which is partially because Dettlaff and Regis are so easy to be around, so comfortable, so pleasant, so intelligent, so interesting, so - everything. And partially because the way Geralt enjoys Dettlaff and Regis is - </p><p>- well.</p><p>Geralt drinks his tea, concentrating hard on the heat of the liquid and all of the components of the complex flavor, anything but <em>that</em>. Regis's words and what he and Dettlaff have discussed and how exactly Geralt enjoys them. But then his train of thought is interrupted by a bright light snapping on above them, and Geralt is caught off guard enough to flinch and shut his eyes before he can stop himself. He's mostly adjusted to life among bright lights, because he doesn't have much of a choice besides enduring the strain they put on his overly sensitive yellow cat eyes and whatever made them that way. Sudden bursts of light, though, still cause a couple seconds of sharp pain and blindness before he adjusts. It hurts, but it derails Geralt's train of thought from wherever he might've struggled to meditate it back from, so he'll take it. </p><p>"Geralt, are you alright?" Dettlaff asks. He sounds concerned. </p><p>"Yeah. Just got surprised by the light." Geralt slowly opens his eyes, trying not to wince but failing. He doesn't know why whoever controls the bulbs has picked their corner to shine a spotlight on, but it's not comfortable. He'll adjust, though, because he has to. Regis is looking concerned too, so Geralt decides to distract him. He has the perfect topic, because Regis mentioned it earlier. Regis had assured Geralt he'd eventually tell him the story of why he switched careers, Geralt's been wanting to hear it, and Regis loves to tell stories and talk about himself. Since Regis tossed his "career journey" out into the conversational mix himself, it seems as good a time as any to try to get the "long and complex story with significant nuance and baring of the soul" that Geralt was promised in typical dramatic Regis fashion. So Geralt says, "Regis, I'd love to hear your career journey story, if you want to tell it. About why you left academia and research, and became an editor." </p><p>"Are you certain? You know how long-winded my stories get. You may be condemning yourself to a two hour monologue, or the need to interrupt me." Regis says it good-naturedly, but there's a little flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. It's very brief, and very slight, but the fact that Regis isn't a hundred percent sure he wants to give an extended speech is enough to give Geralt pause. </p><p>"I'm certain," Geralt says, then shrugs. "Don't have to, though. I'm not gonna pry." </p><p>"I'll strike you a deal. I'll tell part of it. A brief overview, if you will, glossing over the more specific details and evening out some of the highs and lows - as it were - so you can determine if you'd like to hear more. A summary of the sort you would find on a book jacket. How does that sound?" Regis is giving Geralt what seems like it's supposed to be a cheeky smile, but Geralt still finds this strange. Regis abridging a story. Regis sparing details. Regis not jumping at the opportunity to dump a bunch of words on someone, especially about himself. Geralt's about to retract his request, despite how curious he is, but then Regis taps definitively on the small table and gathers his papers up. Dettlaff follows his lead, picking up the messenger bag and putting his sketchbook in it. "Splendid. Though, if you don't mind, I'd like to move our gathering to a second location. That overhead light is very bright - Geralt, I understand why you were startled by it - and the story may be better told somewhere quieter. Should you be willing to brave the outdoors, Dettlaff and I noticed on our walk over that the local park commission has added a partially sheltered fire pit in the middle of that little cobblestone square with benches. Though we did not stop in, it does appear to be well ventilated and warm. And I suspect, due to the weather, we will be alone there. What say you?" </p><p>"I say sure." Geralt's very relieved, with the way he was feeling a headache threatening to set in. He drains the little bit of tea left in his mug and sets it down on the table, stretching as he slowly gets up from the comfortable red plush chair. He'd kind of sunk into it a bit. His knee twinges, and it occurs to him that the walk might not be all that comfortable, but it'll definitely be better than staying here under this light. And a walk in the snow with Regis and Dettlaff, followed by storytelling in front of a fire sounds much too nice to pass up. "Let's get out of here." </p><p>Geralt retrieves his black puffer coat from the back of the chair and pulls it on, then picks up his black and gold-trimmed cashmere scarf and wraps it around his neck. Emhyr gave them to him last winter, managing to get away with it without raising suspicion from Ciri by flinging them at him during a Family Dinner and saying in a disdainful voice that the sight of Geralt's "pathetic rag" had been "an ongoing offense to the sensibilities". Geralt threatened to burn the offending items in Emhyr's own living room fireplace once he saw they both had the gold sun from the var Emreis family crest embroidered somewhere on them, which made Ciri snap at him to stop being an prideful idiot and wear the damn coat and scarf for her sake because his current coat <em>was</em> a pathetic rag and he didn't even own a scarf and <em>it would be heartbreaking if you froze to death, Geralt, could you do that to me, your loving daughter?</em> Emhyr and Geralt had to make out in front of that fireplace for a full half hour to calm down after Geralt said he'd be willing to consider freezing to death if Emhyr's "rich asshole-branded abominations" were the alternative and Ciri stormed off to her sulking bedroom. But the coat and scarf are the first truly warm and comfortable winter outerwear that Geralt's ever owned, and at the end of their fight de-escalating kissing he murmured a little <em>thanks</em> against Emhyr's neck before hopping off his lap to go find Ciri and tell her that he'd tolerate Emhyr's "rich asshole-branded abominations" because of how much he loved her and for that reason alone. Geralt will never admit he likes snuggling into the soft clothing, and isn't as bothered as he thought he'd be by the embroidered suns.</p><p>"Very stylish coat, and lovely scarf," Regis says. Geralt turns to see him and Dettlaff giving him the same look they gave him when he showed up at that brunch restaraunt dressed up in other Emhyr-chosen attire. That pleased and pleasant scrutiny, which makes Geralt feel warm and shy and look down at his decade-old scuffed up winter boots. It makes him feel good that they think he looks good, but he's still conflicted about the way Dettlaff and Regis seem to like his appearance most when he's wearing Emhyr's clothes. He doesn't know what it says about him, that they're so pleased to see Emhyr-styled Geralt instead of Geralt-styled Geralt. Maybe it says that Emhyr really has a point in his disapproving comments about Geralt's ugly worn-out unstylish clothing. Maybe Geralt should try to sneak more of his Emhyr-chosen outfits out to meetings with his editor and illustrator, rumple himself up just enough not to look like his unintentional sugar daddy's dress-up doll, and not think about everything Emhyr did to him the last time he was wearing those clothes. "Well, shall we?" </p><p>Geralt trails Dettlaff and Regis across the tearoom, weaving his way around tables covered with winter scene mugs and the occasional small candle-in-jar display. He has to admit that even though the chatter and upbeat holiday music are a little loud for him, and even though all the lights and wreaths and ribbons are a little cluttered, the place isn't so bad. The fire was nice. He could consider coming somewhere like this once a year, maybe, if he stays in a corner. He should ask Ciri if she likes places like this, and if she does, Geralt could take her to one. Once a year only, though. Geralt continues to hang back until he and his editor and illustrator reach the door, not wanting to interfere with the way the couple has started holding hands. And maybe to watch them together, sides pressed closely against each other's, Regis saying something to Dettlaff that seems to amuse him. Dettlaff turns for just a moment to press his forehead against Regis's, one second of contact that seems so sweet and meaningful that Geralt's heart catches. He pushes away that feeling that he wishes he could somehow feel their bond, the one he's been feeling too much about them. </p><p>At the door, the couple pauses to look back and see if Geralt is following. "What are you doing all the way back there, Geralt? Come walk with us," Regis says, waving him forward with the hand that's not holding Dettlaff's. Geralt swallows hard, nods, follows them through the door, and then stands on Dettlaff's left side. Regis chuckles from the other side of Dettlaff. "Much better. You looked like a lost puppy - entirely our fault for losing you." </p><p>Geralt felt like a lost puppy, sort of. But he also felt like a puppy that was exactly where it was supposed to be.</p><p>They begin to trudge through the snow towards the park. The snow has stopped, making their journey easier, but a light and chilly winter wind is still stinging at Geralt's cheeks and nose. He likes it, though. He gazes up at the sky, looking between the clouds for a few different stars to examine as they walk. He always thinks stars look prettiest in the winter, something about the crispness of the air making the stars look sharper. Regis is talking to Dettlaff, a stream of words that Geralt doesn't catch through the wind, but the sound of his cheery voice is pleasant enough. Geralt walks alongside them in silence, looking back and forth between the sharp stars and the sidewalk ahead of him to make sure there are no obvious patches of ice among the thin layer of snow that's built up since the last shoveling, and finally the park is in sight. It's not a second too soon. The longer they trudge, the more of a trudge it becomes. The cold, combined with the walk on the snowy path, is worsening the ache in his rapidly stiffening right knee. Every year, the damn knee gets worse. But, then again, every year Geralt gets older. </p><p>"Your leg," Dettlaff says, snapping Geralt out of his pondering and attempt to dull the pain through slight meditation. Geralt looks at him, confused. He thought he was doing a good job of hiding it, walking normally. But maybe he wasn't doing as good of a job as he thought, and someone with such sharp observational skills as Dettlaff could pick up on it. Nothing gets by Dettlaff. "It's hurting." </p><p>"Old knee injury acting up." Geralt shrugs. "Happens when it's cold. Nothing to worry about." </p><p>"It doesn't seem like nothing," Dettlaff replies, with his brow furrowed. Before Geralt can wave him off with the fact that he's lived with it for eight years, since it's nothing he's not used to even if it <em>is</em> getting worse, Dettlaff pauses in place. Dettlaff twines his arm with Geralt's, then lifts it up to let Geralt lean on it and take some of the weight off his injured knee. The weight isn't inconsiderable, with the way Geralt's fairly tall and muscular, but Dettlaff is strong. Given his size, it makes sense that he would be, but Geralt hasn't met many people who could carry him if they wanted to - and he gets the feeling that Dettlaff probably could. The only person who's ever picked him up and carried him in a way that wasn't part of a fighting exercise in bodyguard training is Emhyr. Geralt looks at Dettlaff, surprised at the unexpected help. He's tempted not to put as much weight as he wants to on Dettlaff's arm, but Dettlaff would be able to tell. So he gives in. Geralt's ears are flushing bright red under his hair, he can feel it, and he knows it's not just from the cold. Dettlaff looks closely at him for his reaction. "Is that better?" </p><p>"Yeah," Geralt mumbles. He's embarrassed at being helped along like this, but it's probably better than hobbling if he actually was hobbling. "Much better. Thanks." </p><p>"I am glad. I don't want you to be in pain," Dettlaff says, honest and simple. Dettlaff and Regis start walking again, taking Geralt with them, and it's less of a trudge for Geralt to walk alongside them at their pace with Dettlaff taking some of his weight. Geralt burrows his face further down into his scarf and is grateful to have someone like Dettlaff in his life, even if it's just as an illustrator for his weird monster book. He's also grateful to have someone like Regis, even if it's just as an editor. If that's how he can have them, as colleagues who will inevitably part ways when all this is over, then he'll take it. And try not to think too much about that parting of ways, because it's been drifting across his mind lately. Maybe Geralt has fallen victim to the sentimentality of the holiday season, after all. </p><p>The journey through the park is a fairly quick one, since a small city like Daevon doesn't have room for a very big park. The little area with the fire pit and benches and partial shelter is across the park, but that's not far. Just like Regis predicted, they're alone, and a quick sizing up tells Geralt that he was right about it being well-ventilated and warm too. The three of them have to turn their little connected line sideways a bit to get under the shelter, because Dettlaff doesn't seem inclined to give Geralt's arm back, but it's not as awkward as it seems like it would be. The fire is crackling merrily away, safely inside the brick-surrounded pit and protected from the wind, and Geralt already likes it here. </p><p>Dettlaff and Regis guide the group to one of the benches, and Regis drops Dettlaff's hand. Geralt's expecting to be released and left to sit down on his own, but that's not at all what happens. Dettlaff moves smoothly, wrapping his arm around Geralt's waist and putting his hand on Geralt's back to ease him down to the bench and set him carefully on it. Geralt is surprised again, both at how careful Dettlaff is with him and how Dettlaff's strong arms make him feel like he weighs nothing. His big hand makes Geralt's waist feel small. Those are unusual feelings. Feelings that should make Geralt feel uncomfortable coming from almost anyone, especially with how his ex-bodyguard instincts sometimes kick into threat mode even when there's no real threat. But they don't. In fact, Geralt likes being treated like this by Dettlaff. He'd thought he liked how easily Emhyr handles him because most of the time it's rough manhandling during sex or gentle handling after said rough manhandling during sex, and that Emhyr felt like an exception to threat mode because Geralt knows him so well and knows the only threat he poses is a psychological one. So this means that Geralt either likes being gently manhandled by people a lot more than he thought, or Dettlaff has become the kind of safe exception that Emhyr is. It's likely the former, but Geralt doesn't think he could enjoy actually experiencing the former without also having a bit of the latter. And that's - possibly concerning. Possibly very concerning. </p><p>There's a large brick near the fire pit, probably an extra left over from its construction, and Dettlaff pushes it over to the bench with his boot. He gestures to Geralt's right leg and then the brick, and Geralt understands. The brick is tall enough to serve as a nice footstool, and when Geralt puts his foot up on it, he can't help but let out a quiet sigh. It feels good. Dettlaff is studying Geralt's face, clearly hopeful that he helped, and he did. And that's one of the things that's most amazing about Dettlaff: he saw a person in pain, he saw a randomly placed brick, and he instantly put together a way to use the latter to help the former. But one thing Geralt's learned about Dettlaff is that, despite his formidable appearance, his heart is so soft that he can't bear to walk by a creature in pain without helping it, even at his own inconvenience. Geralt nods at Dettlaff. "Really good. Thanks. Appreciate it a lot." </p><p>"Of course. If I can make you more comfortable in any other way, please ask." Dettlaff goes to sit on the other side of Regis, who took a seat next to Geralt on the bench while he was distracted. Geralt stares into the fire flickering away inside the pit and has too many thoughts that don't come together into anything coherent. </p><p>"Spooky stories around the fire. Another holiday tradition," Regis says. </p><p>"Spooky?" Geralt turns to Regis for a moment, and raises his eyebrow at both the statement and the seemingly cheerful look on Regis's cold-reddened face. "How so?" </p><p>"I'm afraid you'll figure that out very quickly." Regis gives Geralt a rueful smile, then looks into the fire. Geralt follows his lead, enjoying both the flames and their warmth. "Well, my story begins as many stories about dramatic life changes often do. Twelve years ago, I nearly died." </p><p>Geralt blinks. At the fire, then Regis, then back at the fire. Regis wasn't kidding about how quickly he'd figure it out. </p><p>"Close to the end of my time in my previous careers in academia and research... ah, how shall I say it... the methodology of my botanical medicine research took a bit of a turn." Regis's voice is wry, and Geralt doesn't know what to make of that tone. "I began personally experimenting with my concoctions. I concocted ones intended to have effects I would like to experience. And I returned to my favorite concoctions frequently, gradually tweaking the formulas to increase their potency. I think you can deduce the problem with that. I could as well, and so, I employed my other specialty - philosophy - to resolve the problem. I developed all kinds of arguments and justifications to quell my doubts about what I was doing: that I could better understand these concoctions' effects if I experienced them firsthand, that a researcher should gain as much knowledge as possible about their subjects of study, that as a professor and an academic I had the responsibility and duty to have the full breadth of information regarding anything I might teach my students about or write a research paper about, on and on. In essence, my highly analytical mind became a double edged sword when I turned it against myself. But no matter how much I attempted to deny it, beneath it all, I could tell what I was doing just as much as I presume you can now." </p><p>Geralt can. </p><p>"Here is where I shall abbreviate our tale, and return to the surface level of it. I will spare you the most gruesome and ghastly details, and leave you with the knowledge that there were in fact gruesome and ghastly details. These culminated with the incident I referenced at the beginning of the tale. Following that, I requested a leave of absence from the university at which I was faculty at the time, and ultimately I did not return from it. Despite the fact that we had only been in a relationship for two months, Dettlaff stayed with me after said incident. Dettlaff bore my weakness bravely, showed great patience. If not for him, I wouldn't be here. Throughout my recovery, I found solace in fiction. I had always been a voracious reader - a highly critical one - and occasionally harbored fantasies of contributing to literature of the non-academic sort. I had a significant amount of time to read and ponder, and so read and ponder I did. After enough reading and pondering, I reached an answer to one certain recurring question within the pondering. Perhaps you can guess what that was." </p><p>Geralt can. </p><p>"And so," Regis concludes, "Dr. Emiel Regis Rollehec Terzieff-Godefroy became... simply Regis. Regis the editor." </p><p>Geralt doesn't know what to say. What the right thing to say is. If there even is a right thing to say. </p><p>"You need not say anything," Regis says, and mercifully spares Geralt. "I know a story like this can be a heavy weight to bear, whether one is the listener or the speaker. I sincerely apologize if it was too heavy - I had planned to be shorter-winded and lighter on the details, particularly those regarding the events leading up to my leave of absence, but once again I flattered myself with the belief that I would be capable of such a feat once I had already embarked upon my event-recalling odyssey. It seems that an editor of all people would be far better at concise wording or condensing stories, and I am quite skilled at that with the written work of others, yet I cannot seem to figure out a way to apply the knowledge to my own oral disquisitions. And - ah - I'm doing it again. Once again, you have my sincerest apologies, Geralt. My gratitude as well, for listening to my story. I confess I do not share it often, usually preferring to answer questions regarding my career path by employing the art of using a witty quip as a diversion. But you are a good listener, and I know you listen with great empathy and understanding. I recall how you handled your interviews and recounting of the stories you were entrusted with by your subjects in Murky Waters who spoke to you about their experiences with Ureus the Cemetaur, along with all other firsthand accounts you have used in <em>Cryptids</em>. Therefore, I know I can trust you to listen to such a personal story without judgement, and to understand." </p><p>Geralt does understand. He understands more than Regis knows. That's because he's almost died too. During the assassination attempt on Calanthe, the one that went to hell and left Geralt taking whatever damage he had to and dishing out whatever he could in return while shielding her with his body, he came really damn close. Not because of the skull fracture and concussion he got by hitting his head on the asphalt road, or the tactical knife he got slashed in the face with, or even the bullet in his knee that could've killed him if it was a little further up. No, his real close call was a bullet that came so close to landing in his head that it took off some of the hair right above his ear. Geralt also had a lengthy recovery period as he tried to get his physical and mental health back, and while it was much different than Regis's, there are a few basic parallels. And at the conclusion of Geralt's recovery, he also had to admit that he wasn't going to be able to go back to his old job and had to do something else. He didn't have another career dream like Regis did, but he had the goal not to starve to death, and that was enough. </p><p>So Geralt gets it. Not exactly what Regis went through, since he had a very different struggle, but the general idea of what a few of those events involve. And Geralt would be lying if he said they didn't mess him up a little, and not only in the obvious ways that just had his book's illustrator hauling him through a park. They're still popular subjects in his nightmares, at least. He also did some stuff while he was a bodyguard that he doesn't want to think about, so he tries not to think about that time in his life much. He thinks about the injuries he got during that assassination attempt incident, because his body and his mirror won't let him forget, and he thinks about getting Ciri because all of the pain of that incident was worth it once he hugged his little girl for the first time and realized she was <em>his daughter</em>. </p><p>After the dust settled on all of that, Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde the bodyguard became... simply Geralt. Geralt the metalworker, and now, the kind of-writer. </p><p>"It occurs to me that I should reassure you that I no longer use such, ah, research and testing methods. As you are aware, botanical medicine is now a hobby for me, though it only became so two years ago through gradual re-exposure and great care. I still care deeply about performing work in the medical field, and therefore, I have ensured I am ready to be around the substances of my temptation without - partaking, as it were." Regis rests a hand on Geralt's, then reaches to his other side to hold Dettlaff's. "In addition to my devotion to those I care about, and my work, I have Dettlaff to keep an eye on me. I cannot tell you enough how much Dettlaff has done for me. How much he has helped me." </p><p>Dettlaff puts an arm around Regis and kisses his hair, and Regis breaks out into a sunny smile. The two of them are so sweet, and it's such a deeply personal remark, that Geralt feels like he <em>should</em> feel like he's intruding on their moment. But the way Regis told him the story, and the way Regis is still resting a hand on his, keeps Geralt from feeling like he's somewhere he doesn't belong. Slowly, tentatively, carefully, for the first time, Geralt turns his hand over and holds Regis's hand by himself. And <em>that's</em> when he feels like he's intruding, <em>that's</em> when he feels like he's put himself into something he shouldn't be part of, and he has a moment of panic where he nearly yanks his hand away and apologizes. But then Regis turns to look at Geralt with something so delighted in his eyes and on his face. Like it's something he's been waiting for, but wasn't sure whether to expect. Regis squeezes Geralt's hand and presses his side against Geralt's just like he did with Dettlaff back at the tearoom, and Geralt - doesn't know what to do. </p><p>So Geralt holds Regis's hand. Because he genuinely doesn't know what to do. </p><p>It's quiet for a while. The three of them sit together looking into the fire, listening to the wind that's picking up outside the little shelter. The snow's started back up, light and sparse flakes, but a look at the sky tells Geralt it'll be heavier before too long. That doesn't make him think about leaving, though. Between the crackling warmth and cheery light of the fire, the snow against the dark sky, and Dettlaff and Regis sitting here with him, Geralt can't imagine leaving. With the way no one is anywhere in sight outside the shelter, it's easy to feel like the three of them are alone in the wintry city. If they were, Geralt thinks, that would be nice. </p><p>"Regis neglects to mention the way in which he saved me as well," Dettlaff says, after what feels like a long time but could be any length with the way time feels like it's started to move differently inside the little hut. While the statement is clearly the beginning of a story, there's a cadence in his low voice that sounds like it could be ready to stop at any moment. Dettlaff doesn't talk about himself, and though Geralt knows a lot about who he is as a person and an illustrator, he knows nothing about Dettlaff's history or his personal life outside of his art and his relationship with Regis. So this kind of admission is very rare from Dettlaff. Geralt listens. "In the very early days of our relationship, I found myself trapped in a situation where I was made to believe that an atrocity could only be prevented if I did things I never wanted to do. I attempted to hide it from Regis, but he found out regardless. He then discovered the truth of the situation, extricated me from it, and provided a presence for me as I came to terms with it." </p><p>Geralt doesn't know what to say then, either. Dettlaff provided a lot less details than Regis did, to the point that Geralt couldn't even guess what happened, but it's clear that Dettlaff's story feels just as personal and revealing to Dettlaff as Regis's story did to Regis. Hearing what the two of them have been through together, what they've done for each other, what they've helped each other with and saved each other from, Geralt can see why the couple is so close and why their relationship is so strong. Those are the kinds of things that break a couple or bond them intensely, and Geralt can tell they've come out of the events with unshakeable trust in each other. He feels kind of like he did during those interviews Regis mentioned while explaining why he felt like Geralt was a safe person to talk to. And those interviews had been the most intense ones he'd ever conducted during his cryptid research endeavors. But they had also been the most meaningful, and he'd felt the strongest connection with those subjects. Just like during those interviews, Geralt feels intensely grateful for what's been shared with him, without knowing how to say that. He might be good at listening, but he's still terrible with words. </p><p>Dettlaff is a man of action, and places value on giving to others. Regis is a man of words, and places value on connecting with others. And they both believe in the importance of stories. So Geralt finally figures out how to express how he feels about their willingness to tell him personal things like that, to let him into their relationship, and to let him into their lives. </p><p>"I understand," Geralt says. He doesn't tell many stories about his own life, but he hopes he can tell just enough of his story to give Dettlaff and Regis some connection.  It feels inadequate, but it's the best he can do. "Haven't been through the exact same things, but... almost died myself once, and had to do some things I wish I never had to do." </p><p>"Thank you, Geralt," Dettlaff says. Regis strokes the back of Geralt's hand with his thumb, and Geralt chances a look up at both of them. Dettlaff is resting his head on Regis's shoulder, clinging to him with an arm around his waist. Regis's other hand is on Dettlaff's thigh in a comforting gesture, which confirms that Geralt was right about how little Dettlaff opens up like that. And the heaviest thing Geralt's gotten tonight isn't their stories, or even their willingness to confide in him - it's their trust. </p><p>"How'd you two meet?" Geralt asks, hoping to guide them into territory where they might be a little more comfortable. Something they might be a little happier to talk about. Unless they met on a desert island after an airplane crash or in a makeshift shelter during a tornado, in which case he's going to be sorry he asked. </p><p>"Very romantically," Regis says, smiling softly as his voice takes on a dreamy quality. Which is a massive relief to Geralt. "It was twelve years ago, in Nazair. A cold night, with heavy rain impending. Dettlaff was a street artist, with a little stand on the side of the road where he was doing quick paintings for passersby on the sidewalk - and undercharging terribly for them, I must note. Dettlaff was packing up for the night when I happened by. I complimented his work, and despite the time and the weather, he insisted on keeping his stand open a bit longer to paint a portrait of me. He refused to allow me to pay for the portrait, insisting that I was the one who had provided something of value to him by serving as his muse. I could not imagine what an artist such as Dettlaff saw in a shabby old academic, but he told me that I had countless fascinating details about me and then invited me to join him for a cup of tea at his apartment. I accepted his invitation, he made the tea, and then I - well, I talked at him all night. I prompted him for contributions, and gradually began to receive encouragement to elaborate on my statements and the occasional insightful comment. Shortly after sunrise, Dettlaff told me that it had always been his dream to share his life with someone he could pass an entire night talking to without ever once growing bored. And, well, who was I to deny him that?" </p><p>Geralt thinks that's probably the most romantic thing he's ever heard. It's a beautiful tale. And a beautiful relationship. Beautiful couple, too. Geralt almost regrets asking, because of how painfully bittersweet it is to know that Dettlaff and Regis are so happy together and so in love and he's - </p><p>- he doesn't know. But he doesn't actually regret asking. He doesn't regret asking about any of the stories he got tonight. The holiday sentimentality really must be getting to Geralt, because he thinks maybe sometimes people need to hear tales like Dettlaff's and Regis's. Sometimes it's necessary to remember that strength like theirs is possible, recovery like theirs is possible, and love like theirs is possible. </p><p>"The snowflakes appear to be of the same size and weight as those painted on my mug at the tearoom," Dettlaff says, from where he's lifted his head from Regis's shoulder. He indicates the flakes that are falling thicker and faster now, starting to form a new layer over the one currently on the ground. It's another fascinating and tiny detail that Geralt never would've picked up, or even thought to look for. "The density of their fall was similar for a bit, but it is quickly growing heavier." </p><p>"So it is. Caught up as I was in our saga, my beloved, the intensifying weather escaped my notice." Regis gives Dettlaff a charming smile, and Geralt sees Dettlaff's lips twitch a little bit in a smile. Regis turns the same smile on Geralt, and it momentarily sends his mind tripping again, this time over an object that feels like the brick his foot is resting on. "Loathe as I am to leave your company, my dear Geralt, it has become a matter of safety to part. Were it not, I could likely talk at you all night as well. Perhaps it's for the better that you're rid of me long before sunrise." </p><p>Regis gets to his feet, then pulls Geralt up after him. He's careful not to put Geralt in any position that would strain his right leg, and then squeezes Geralt's hand with both of his once he has Geralt standing in front of him. Dettlaff puts a hand on Geralt's back, leaning over for a cheek kiss from Regis at the same time, and it makes Geralt feel shaky in a way he doesn't fully understand. He wants to think it's the cold, but it's not. </p><p>"Should we walk you to your car?" Dettlaff asks, with a subtle gesture at Geralt's knee. </p><p>"It'll be fine," Geralt says. He's tempted to say yes, because he's parked the piece of shit truck pretty far away from the park - let alone the far side of it - and it would give him more time with Dettlaff and Regis. But he's not ready to go back to it yet, and he could use a little more time outdoors by the fire to sit by himself. Geralt's come to know the couple well enough by now to be aware that they won't leave him without a reassurance that he'll be okay. "Parked pretty close. Knee's feeling a lot better, after resting and putting it up." </p><p>They stand there for a moment, like no one wants to be the first one to call it a night. </p><p>"Well. Happy Holidays, Geralt," Regis says, while Dettlaff starts rummaging for something in his messenger bag. "And, in case we don't talk to you before then, Happy New Year." </p><p>"This is for you, from both of us," Dettlaff says, and hands Geralt the thing he retrieved from Regis's bag. It's a very small red bag, heavy for its size, filled with red tissue paper. "Happy Holidays and Happy New Year, Geralt. We look forward to spending another year with you." </p><p>Geralt stands there, a little stunned, as the two of them walk away hand in hand before he can say anything in return. He hadn't thought of getting them a gift, and he wouldn't have expected them to get him anything. But here he is, with a little red bag in his hand and their words in his ears and too much in his heart. Dettlaff and Regis turn a corner on the path through the park and disappear into the night, and it hits Geralt that he should be rushing after them to thank them. He takes a few quick steps out of the shelter, ready to call out to them, but then he realizes something. Dettlaff didn't wait to see his reaction. Dettlaff always wants to see Geralt's reaction to things, no matter how minute they are, and it seems like a holiday gift should be one of the things he'd want to see Geralt's reaction to the most. Regis likes being happy with people, so it seems like he should want to watch a gift opening too. But instead, the couple left immediately after giving him the present. If they left so quickly, there must be a reason they wanted Geralt to open his gift alone. Geralt can't imagine what it is, but if that's what they want, it's what he'll do. </p><p>The tiny red bag tilts when Geralt starts to move the tissue paper aside, the heavy thing inside it shifting its weight. He has to unwrap whatever the item is, with the way it's been very carefully and thickly padded inside the crinkly paper. And when Geralt finally gets it unwrapped, he discovers there's another paper around it, this one a nice thick stationery paper. Geralt reaches inside it and pulls out an engraved wooden item. It's a small carved Vigilosaur, with four spiked ends on its tail and alert eyes and a menacing sneer on its little face. From how perfect the features are, and how exactly they replicate the tiny details and the personality of the monster Dettlaff painted, Geralt knows who must've carved it. The stationery paper has a sketch of a raven on it in a calligraphy ink pen, and next to it, a note in the same pen in a much more formal and elaborate version of Regis's usual cursive. The extra flourishes and more condensed writing makes it hard for Geralt to read without his glasses, and the snow's not helping, but from the length of the lines and the way they're spaced out it looks like it could be some kind of poem. Geralt squints at the letters, trying to make them out, and can't do it. He'll have to read the note - or poem - when he gets home. </p><p>But he gets the first and last lines on the paper:</p><p><em>Our dear Geralt,</em><br/>
and,<br/>
<em>Very happily yours,<br/>
Dettlaff &amp; Regis</em></p><p>Geralt closes his eyes against the way the wind and snow are making them sting all of a sudden, clutching tighter onto the carved wooden Vigilosaur and the calligraphy note and the tiny red bag. Both the little creature and the paper are in danger from any snow that might get on them and melt, so Geralt quickly hurries back into the firepit shelter with them. He sits back down on the bench he'd been sitting on with Regis and Dettlaff, planning to re-pack the bag, but he doesn't want to let go of the items. Geralt sits there for a long time, looking into the fire and holding his draconid and note. Finally, with numb fingers, Geralt carefully wraps the stationery paper around the Vigilosaur and the tissue paper around both of them. He places them into the little red bag, then gives the fire one last look before he gets up to leave. </p><p>Geralt holds the bag to his chest with both hands to protect it from the weather as he trudges across the park, slowly and surely, through the heavily falling snow. The streets of downtown Daevon are empty as he walks down them, the only light coming from the stars between the clouds and the streetlamps. All the lights in the shops and restaurants are off, closed for the night. The tearoom is dark when Geralt passes it, but  when he looks in the big window, he can dimly see the wreaths and ribbons by the table near the fireplace where he and Regis and Dettlaff sat. Once Geralt reaches his truck, he sits in it for a while with the red bag still held to his chest. And then, finally, he sets the bag on his lap and puts the key into the ignition and starts his long drive back home. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Ciri's favorite time to barge into Geralt's home office is when he's in the middle of typing up his handwritten drafts. Or maybe that's just a probability thing: Geralt has to type up so many drafts, and it takes so long. It's January, ten months after he started writing, and he's still struggling to peck out simple words using four fingers at most. Would've been nice if he'd learned to type before he started writing a book. </p><p>"You need your glasses prescription updated, don't you?" Ciri asks, and Geralt can hear the fabric of her sweatshirt shifting as she crosses her arms at him. He knows what that sounds like. "You are now hunching and squinting while you're <em>wearing</em> your glasses. I'll have Morvran schedule you an optometrist appointment - and a dentist appointment, since I know you haven't made one of those on your own." </p><p>Geralt doesn't complain about Ciri setting her and Emhyr's assistant loose on his mess of a life, because she's right. He hasn't scheduled any appointments, and his eyes are so strained from the past couple months that he'll be walking out of the optometrist with new lenses as thick as bricks. Geralt's been sitting at this desk and staring at his notebook since he woke up this morning, which he thinks was twelve hours ago. He can't use light or celestial body positioning as a guide, since he covered his big window overlooking the hill with a sheet because the untouched snow covering the hill was tempting him to go crunch footsteps into it. He's gotten up twice, for a couple minutes each time, and that's it. He feels like he's become one with the desk, but he's afraid to check if he's grown roots into the chair. The first several hours of Geralt's day were spent scribbling into his notebook, and the past few hours have been spent trying to type up those scribbles. They're nearly illegible. Geralt's handwriting is still chicken scratch, progressively worsening throughout the day as his fingers tire and cramp up, and the pages look like Regis annotated them but with scrawls of dull pencil. Sentences are crossed out, spelling mistakes are written over, and asterisks are sprinkled all over the paper leading to smudged footnotes and margin notes. Some of them are facts or information to look up, some of them are things to ask Regis for help with, and some of them are words he's pretty sure he didn't use right so he's not sure why he bothered trying to "introduce variety into the vocabulary and spice up the metaphors and idioms" which is Regis-speak for <em>stop using the same damn words and phrases over and over</em>. </p><p>"Hm," Geralt grunts. Ciri will be able to translate that particular sound as <em>do whatever you want</em>, since she's gotten it fairly often for seven years. It's all she's getting now, because Geralt is sure as hell never going to verbally assent to his seventeen year old daughter's assistant taking over the task of making sure his eyes and teeth don't fall out. </p><p>Geralt's nightmares are now probably going to feature his eyes and teeth falling out. They've been featuring just about everything they can, pilfering some stuff from his day-to-day life and making other shit up. The nightmares have been getting worse and worse, packing in as many scenarios as they can before his brain can't fucking take it anymore and wakes him up. The disorientation and the residual feelings have gotten so intense that sometimes Geralt doesn't realize where he is for several minutes, spending that time gasping for breath and clutching at his racing heartbeat and trying to claw through the fog of panic to figure out why he's so scared and what's threatening him and whether he should lash out at it or run. He always remembers in the end, and though the nightmares can get very creative, there are a few recurring themes: his book being destroyed, people he knows being hurt or killed, his inadequacies being spoken aloud, Ciri being threatened by unknown dangers, his body being filled with the bullets from the men who tried to assassinate Calanthe ten years ago. And now, maybe, the loss of his eyes and teeth. He'll find out tonight. </p><p>One of the really awful parts of the worsening nightmares, though - besides the obvious exhaustion and stress and fear - is how Geralt keeps wishing Emhyr was there with him. Once Geralt escapes from the haze of terror, sitting there alone and shivering on his bed trying to ground himself in reality, he desperately wishes Emhyr was there to hold him. Comfort him. Prove, with his presence, that the nightmares weren't real. Calm Geralt down sooner, pull him out of that terrible fog of confusion and horror. Keep him from getting so lost in his own mind that he just goes down, down, <em>down</em>. Geralt doesn't want to wish Emhyr was there, because he hates Emhyr and he hates how Emhyr manages to make him want him, but he does. Geralt's able to admit to himself now, after months and years and decades of lonely fear, that waking up from nightmares is better when Emhyr is there. And after months and years and decades and a whole lifetime of loneliness, Geralt's starting to be able to admit to himself that a lot of things are better when Emhyr is there. When they're not fighting, when they've fucked until they've managed to love each other, Geralt's life is better when Emhyr is there. </p><p>And Geralt fucking hates that. </p><p>"Well, I didn't come to tease you about your failing old man vision. I could, but it feels like it would just be cruel," Ciri says. Geralt gives her another grunt, this time translating to <em>yeah it would be</em>. "I have another objective." </p><p>Geralt looks up from the blur of the chicken-scratch notebook, giving Ciri a yellow-eyed stare over the top of the "stylish" frame of his glasses. "This about The Internet?" </p><p><em>The Internet</em> is Emhyr's doing. A week ago, Emhyr imposed a renovation on Geralt's house without asking his permission again. Ciri had a soccer game in Aedd Gynvael, and Geralt really needed to get out of the house, so he decided to risk the ire of his beat-up piece-of-shit truck and take a day trip up there to watch the game. He left at the crack of dawn, and came back at eight o'clock at night to find several people packing up a van in front of the damn garage that now had a massive satellite dish on top of it. Geralt asked them what the hell was going on, and they told him that "Mr. var Emreis" had sent them to install some signal amplifying monstrosity on his roof "in the meantime". So Geralt asked them what the hell it was in the meantime of, and they told him that "Mr. var Emreis" would be sending a team to run new high-speed fiber-optic internet cables up their hill in two weeks. Geralt called Emhyr to yell at him and got Morvran, who explained that "Miss Cirilla" had finally complained to "Mr. var Emreis" about the slow cell phone and internet service and obviously "Mr. var Emreis" could not allow "Miss Cirilla" to suffer such a technologically backward indignity. So now The Internet is a thing. And by <em>thing</em>, Geralt means minefield. </p><p>"No, Geralt. It is not about The Internet," Ciri says. "Though I am still delighted about The Internet." </p><p>Geralt knows Ciri is delighted about The Internet, and the satellite dish. Ciri has spent the past week marvelling at her significantly improved phone and internet signal, and won't stop squealing about how <em>fast!</em> it is and how <em>amazing!</em> it is and how much she <em>can't wait!</em> to get the light-speed internet cables while tapping away on her phone screen at a rate that probably outpaces the service. Ciri's so happy about the whole thing, and Geralt's so used to being mad at Emhyr, that Geralt knows he's going to let Emhyr get away with his unilateral meddling yet again. He should rip Emhyr's head off, and part of him wants to, but Ciri keeps declaring that this is the best thing that's ever happened to her. So Geralt is going to shut up and accept that another one of Emhyr's goddamn <em>decisions</em> made their lives better. Another thing Geralt is starting to be able to admit to himself is that Emhyr's <em>decisions</em> always improve Ciri's quality of life, and Geralt's too. </p><p>However, Emhyr got into town two days ago. And if he pisses Geralt off after Ciri leaves for the weekend, Geralt is going to take this chance to finally kill him. </p><p>"Okay. Not The Internet." Geralt thinks for a second, and can't believe how obvious the answer is. "I'm still not gonna let you see the book." </p><p>"I can't believe you will so openly admit you don't love me," Ciri accuses, pouting. She tries to give him pleading eyes, but the thick smoky eye makeup ringed around her bright green eyes makes her look like a sad raccoon. "Really, Geralt, how could you tell your own daughter that you don't love her." </p><p>"Not gonna work on me," Geralt says, and retaliates by reversing the guilt tactic. "Know how I got you? I got shot in the knee and took a knife to the face. Hobbled around on crutches for months with my forehead and cheek split wide open, and that's after the crack in my skull healed. Still got the bad knee and the facial scar, and white hair from the near-death experience trauma." </p><p>"Yes, Geralt, I know the story. You didn't <em>know</em> you would get guardianship of me from that incident, so trying to guilt me won't work either." Ciri rolls her eyes. "Your knee isn't that bad. And I like your hair and your scar, because we match." </p><p>That still hurts Geralt. Ciri's scar, that is, not her ash blonde hair. He's still getting used to seeing the indent that cuts through her eyebrow and nicks the top of her cheekbone. Ciri got the scar during a soccer game back in October, a freak accident where she fell and took a cleat in the face from a teammate. Geralt didn't consider at first whether she'd end up with a scar from it, because he was too busy panicking about the fact that she could have eye damage or a head injury. Ciri had to get stitches and two rounds of concussion protocol, one on the sideline of the field and one at the hospital, and every muscle in Geralt's body was so tense it nearly snapped until the doctors confirmed that she didn't have a brain injury and her eye was fine. He's had a few concussions himself, including when he got the scar that mirrors Ciri's, and he knows from experience that even minor eye conditions can be a pain in the ass. The thought of his daughter possibly having a permanent injury nearly broke him. Geralt called Emhyr from the emergency room to tell him what happened and get his credit card info to pay the hospital bill, but most of the call was Emhyr talking him down from the horrible adrenaline rush he'd been riding for the past few hours. Reassuring him that what had happened was terrifying, but Ciri was fine, so if he closed his eyes and breathed deeply and concentrated on steadying his heartbeat then he'd be fine too. </p><p>But when the dust settled, it was clear that Ciri was going to have a permanent scar. It's just a little scar, much smaller and thinner than Geralt's, and Ciri actually likes it. She's proud of it, because she's happy to wear the evidence of how hard she works for her sport and she thinks it makes her look more like Geralt. Geralt has to admit the scar does make her look badass, and he of all people knows there's nothing wrong with having scars, but constantly seeing the reminder of his daughter being hurt is hard for him. He likes that he and Ciri have a family resemblance, but he didn't want it to increase through an injury. That incident has featured a lot in his nightmares, too. </p><p>"Don't grow a beard or people will start mistaking you for me," Geralt says, because he still doesn't quite know how to talk about Ciri's scar. A little sad, considering how openly she talks about his. </p><p>"I'd have to grow quite a bit taller and take up bodybuilding too," Ciri shoots back, but she's clearly biting back a laugh. And they're okay. "Fine. I won't bother you about the book. But <em>only</em> because I have something else to talk about." </p><p>Geralt spins his chair around as fast as it can go, which is kind of a slow and jerky scoot that produces an awful screeching noise with the way the rusting is getting worse. He's been so busy with the book that he's checked in with Ciri a little less often than usual, but he hadn't thought it was <em>too</em> much less than usual. Then again, he didn't think it'd been so long since he saw his dentist that she thought he'd died, or that he needed an update to his glasses so bad that a seventeen year old's assistant had to handle it for him. Geralt curses himself for thinking his parenting instincts would stay any more intact than his other instincts. He'll never fucking forgive himself if something has been bothering his daughter and he missed it. "Everything okay?" </p><p>"Perfect, actually." Ciri's smile shows all her teeth, and Geralt is overwhelmingly relieved. She bounces on her slippered feet, looking like she's barely restraining herself from jumping up and down. "I did it, Geralt! I just submitted the last of my university applications! I'm done! They are all submitted! <em>Finally!</em> And I lived to tell you about it! Close call, though, I nearly died at my desk. But I lived because you need me." </p><p>"Ciri, that's amazing. Congratulations." Geralt starts to get to his feet, then gets stuck a couple inches above his chair and winces. He thought he was joking about growing roots into the seat, but he has to look down at his ass and check. Turns out he's just very, very stiff. He uses a pitiful and aged groaning sound, one of what Ciri calls his "dad noises", as a boost of momentum to gradually and painfully straighten his legs and back. He waits for Ciri to tease him about being a creaky old fossil who's frozen himself in a sitting position, but this time, she's kind enough not to. "C'mere." </p><p>Ciri pounces on Geralt, and between her enthusiasm level and the spring she gets from her soccer leg muscles she almost manages to knock him over. Impressive, considering his size. Geralt jokingly stumbles back, pretending he's about to fall, and Ciri laughs and yelps as she clings onto him to avoid toppling to the ground. Geralt steadies them both and hugs her tightly, burying his face in her lilac-scented hair. She's gotten taller. And, apparently, gotten one step closer to her future. One step closer to moving far away and leaving him, but one step closer to the much brighter things that await her there. It's bittersweet. Usually Ciri is the one that lets go of Geralt first, but this time, she keeps clinging onto him. </p><p>"Proud of you, Ciri. Know you worked hard. Much harder than I could've worked," Geralt says. And he means it. Between all the classes and the applications and the essays and the internships and the admissions tests and the interview prep and the campus visits and official meetings and on and on and on, she worked her ass off. Geralt never could've done it. All the academic stuff is beyond his reach. Bodyguarding, he knows. Metalworking, he knows. Researching, he knows. Writing, he <em>almost</em> knows. But all that school stuff and professional stuff, it's totally out of his realm. And Geralt knows Emhyr worked hard too. Every step of the way, he was there, helping Ciri and encouraging her and doing whatever he could to help her get the chance she deserved. A girl who came from a childhood of abandonment and death, got put into the arms of a broke and jobless recently-disabled man with no idea how to care for her, and could've ended up stuck in a low-paying job at a place she hated just like her dad. But Emhyr came back and tried to atone for his mistakes, and he threw everything he had into helping Ciri reach her full potential. And Ciri rose to the occasion and took advantage of that opportunity with everything she had too. "Don't know how I got so lucky, ending up with the smartest little girl on the Continent." </p><p>"I do," Ciri says, muffled by Geralt's thinning and stained thrift store sweatshirt. "You got shot in the knee and took a knife to the face, hobbled on crutches for months with your face split open after your skull healed, and still you have a bad knee and a scar and white hair." </p><p>Geralt actually laughs at that. He hasn't laughed - a <em>real</em> laugh - in, shit, he can't even guess how long. He squeezes Ciri hard, and she still doesn't try to wriggle away. "I owe you a home-baked caramel apple cake. How 'bout I make that when you get back from kicking ass? Soccer game in Attre. See. I remember them without your assistant bugging me about them." </p><p>"Can you make it without poisoning me?" Ciri pulls back now, so that she can give Geralt a skeptical look. Geralt nods. He knows he can, because Emhyr's chef was kind enough to help him learn the recipe and practice it until he could make it like a professional. Marlene's the sweetest thing, so she didn't mind spending hours helping Geralt perfect the cake after he apologized profusely for being a pain in the ass and explained it was for his daughter. "Alright. If you truly won't poison me after one of the biggest accomplishments of my life, then yes, I would like that. But you must write in royal icing: <em>Congratulations, Ciri, the smartest little girl on the Continent, I am proud of you and I know you worked hard</em>." </p><p>"How big do you think this cake is gonna be?" Geralt asks. Ciri gives him the sad raccoon eyes, and he sighs. "Big enough for the message. Got it." </p><p>"Well, now I wait," Ciri says, with a heavy sigh. She flops down in Geralt's horrible chair before Geralt can intercept her to keep the cursed thing from ruining her back, and they both wince at the horrific screech of the mechanisms. "Some universities will accept me, some may interview me before deciding, and some may reject me. Only time will tell." </p><p>Geralt snorts. "I don't think you have to worry about getting rejected when you only applied to schools that begged you to go there and tried to bribe you with scholarship promises before you even sent in the damn form. Let's assume that anywhere the head of admissions or a soccer coach personally gave you a sales pitch is a yes." </p><p>"We can't get cocky," Ciri warns Geralt, but her crooked smile suggests she agrees with his logic. She almost immediately switches to a long-suffering look and lets out another heavy sigh. "If they all accept me, though, that does nothing to solve The Dilemma. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about." </p><p>Geralt knows what The Dilemma is, because they've been going through it for what now feels like forever. That's what Ciri calls the problem of deciding which of the Continent's top universities she wants to attend. Geralt personally thinks it's one of the best problems anyone can have, but after how upset Ciri got the first few times he said that, he's decided to stop trying to minimize her angst. Working through The Dilemma involves Ciri rambling about things Geralt just thoughtfully nods along to and provides a clueless sounding board, kind of like he does when Regis goes off on one of those explanations or speeches that go over his head. Now that he thinks about it, Ciri does exhibit some Regis-like behaviors, with the energetic voice and the hand-waving and the tangents that involve technical things that Geralt doesn't understand like <em>International Relations major Non-Governmental Organization fellowship</em> and <em>Cross-Continental exchange program placement</em> and <em>Honors Thesis with faculty mentorship option</em>. Ciri and Emhyr have both tried to explain to Geralt what exactly his daughter is going to study at her future university, but they both got too specific and technical and he didn't want to keep asking them questions like <em>what the hell is an international cooperation agreement diplomacy initiative</em>. So Geralt has been useless throughout The Dilemma, but he's good at nodding and making <em>hm</em> noises, so he prepares to do that again now. </p><p>And then Ciri says, "What do you think I should do, Geralt? I want to have a priority order by the time the acceptances or rejections arrive, or at least a first choice school. Which one would <em>you</em> advise me to pick?" </p><p>Geralt did not see that question coming. He also has no answer for it. Nothing that's happened over the past eternity has suggested he'd have an answer for it, but Ciri isn't going to like that he has no answer for it. So Geralt tries to buy himself a little time by making a mock surprised face. "Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon asking for advice from her dad? I've seen everything now. I wouldn't even be shocked if Voref the Wolf-Beast turns out to be real." </p><p>"Spare me the sarcasm," Ciri replies with a disdainful look, and Geralt thinks the cursed spirit of Emhyr var Emreis has possessed her for a second. That reaction was pure Emhyr. Mercifully, Ciri proves she's not possessed by the Continent's most condescending asshole by saying, "<em>Please</em>, Geralt. I could really use your guidance." </p><p>"Gotta know more about what I'm guiding," Geralt says, hoping Ciri might give him a scrap of information he can use to scrape together a bullshit non-answer that she'll immediately see through but will at least know he's trying. "What are your top three choices?" </p><p>"Ceas'raet University, University of Vengerberg, and Brugge University," Ciri rattles off, like the list has become muscle memory. Geralt figured Ceas'raet and Vengerberg would be on the list, but Brugge is a surprise. She hasn't talked about that one much in the past. Geralt wonders how much of the Ceas'raet and Vengerberg choices were influenced by Emhyr and Yennefer, but he's probably being paranoid. They're both really good universities, from his understanding, and there's no danger of Ciri not thinking for herself. Geralt's fine with Yen providing some influence if it counterbalances Emhyr's, because the less influence Ciri gets from Emhyr the better. Which is saying something, considering how questionable Yen's influence can be: Geralt video chatted with Yen last week and asked her if she'd taught Ciri to make hallucinogenic mushroom concoctions, to which Yen gave a vague response about "educating Ciri on how to safely and responsibly create nutritional drinks and health supplements that could potentially lead to mind-opening experiences" and immediately changed the subject. Geralt knows Brugge is a very good school, though, because Emhyr seemed concerned when Ciri mentioned considering it at their last Family Dinner. </p><p>"Favorite things about them?" Geralt asks, because he thinks Ciri's only listed things she likes without saying which are her favorite things. He hopes she hasn't said that. He's going to look like a real asshole if she has. </p><p>Ciri rattles a list off like muscle memory again. "Ceas'raet has the best reputation, is in the biggest center of political power on the Continent, and has a special honors fellowship program with a small cohort that gets lots of hands-on government diplomacy experience. University of Vengerberg also has a good reputation, has a study abroad program with every top school on the Continent, and has the most faculty mentorship. Brugge <em>also</em> has a good reputation, provides the best NGO internship opportunities, and sends its IR students to international conferences. So, you can see why I'm so conflicted, Geralt! You can see why I am torn apart by The Dilemma!" </p><p>"Yup. Sure can," Geralt replies, even though he doesn't fully understand most of those things and couldn't start to guess which ones rank higher on Ciri's priority scale. "Hard choice." </p><p>"It is. And that's why I'm here." Ciri looks up at Geralt with such uncertainty in her eyes that it takes him aback. He hasn't seen her look that uncertain in a while, and it really worries him. "Because I want your guidance. You're the only person in my life who hasn't given any input on my choice, not even the smallest scrap of an opinion, and you're the person I trust most. So I need your help. Would <em>you</em> advise me to go to Ceas'raet University, University of Vengerberg, or Brugge University?" </p><p>Geralt's frozen. With the way Ciri's looking at him, he can practically see a <em>Time Left To Decide</em> bar ticking down over her head. Ciri telling Geralt he's the person she trusts most is overwhelming, and it makes Geralt really <em>want</em> to give her advice. But it also solidifies in Geralt's mind that he can't give her advice on something he doesn't understand, and he can't give her any suggestions he doesn't fully believe in. This is Ciri's future, it's her life path, and Geralt can't do it. So Geralt says, "I don't know. Honestly don't have the slightest clue. I wish I could help, but I couldn't tell you which to pick even if you put a gun to my head." </p><p>"If you don't show me your book soon, I <em>will</em> put a gun to your head," Ciri says, with a shaky smile that makes it obvious she's trying to hide how disappointed she is that Geralt didn't have an answer for her. And that crushes Geralt, but he still feels like deep down, it's for the best. After a bit, Ciri says, "Thank you, Geralt." </p><p>"Don't thank me," Geralt says, looking down at the scratched-up wood floor because fuck, he feels guilty. He hates leaving Ciri on her own to flounder because he didn't - <em>couldn't</em> - make a choice. "I didn't help." </p><p>"You always listen, though." Ciri's voice is gentle. "And maybe it's best that you never gave your opinion. Maybe it's alright to have one person in my life who isn't trying to push me towards something. Everyone has an agenda. Papa wants me to follow in his footsteps and take what he thinks is the best opportunity for me to achieve as much as possible, Yennefer wants me to be where she thinks I can best be taught to "wield my innate power", my teachers all have thoughts about where I could best "benefit the world"... it's so much pressure! I don't <em>want</em> the fate of the world to be on my shoulders. I never asked for everyone to treat me like I'm responsible for fixing all society's ills."  </p><p>"You're not, Ciri. You're not." Geralt quickly kneels down in front of the screechy chair to pull Ciri into his arms, ignoring the sharp pangs of pain in his knee and his heart to gather his daughter up and hold her. "You'll be whoever you want to be. You'll do whatever you want to do. Want to be the most powerful woman on the Continent and take over countries? Go ahead, you'd be great at running them. Want to be a feral hermit in the woods, living off animals you hunt with a bow and arrow? Why not. I'll love you no matter what. Fuck anyone who <em>wouldn't</em> respect whatever you want to do." </p><p>"I'm crying because that was a very nice thing to say, so don't feel bad about making me cry. I appreciate that you made me cry," Ciri whimpers out, like that makes Geralt feel any better about it being his fault that Ciri's now sobbing on him. His instinct is to start trying to comfort her and shush her and make her stop crying because fuck, he can't deal with his daughter crying, but he squashes it down. He loves her and she's going through a lot and if she needs to cry then, well, he's going to have to get over the way it repeatedly stabs him in the chest. Ciri sniffles loudly for a while, until finally - thank god - she stops sobbing on Geralt. She sniffles again, dramatically, one last time. "Alright. I'm done. But since you made me cry, you can't complain that I got eye makeup all over your sweatshirt. It's falling apart and gross and you need to get rid of it anyway." </p><p>"Way ahead of you," Geralt says, because he already planned on getting Emhyr to throw it out for him. "Guess that's my advice. I want you to do whatever you want with your life. I'm not gonna push you one way or the other. Though if Emhyr wakes up one day and decides to take back his opinion and stay totally neutral, maybe then I'll pick a school to tell you to go to. Best parenting strategy for me is to do the opposite of what <em>your Papa</em> does." </p><p>Ciri sits up, reaches up to wipe her tear-streaked face on her sleeve, then reconsiders and takes Geralt's sleeve to wipe off the rest of her smeared eye makeup instead. Geralt deserves it, and, well, the rag will be tossed into a mansion's trash soon anyway. "You and Papa are ridiculous. You know things would be easier if the two of you just got along. Imagine: no more fighting, no more squabbling, no more growling at each other over the phone, no more embarrassing yourself after too much wine at Family Dinners - yes, Geralt, you <em>do</em> get so sloppy drunk it's embarrassing, and don't try to tell your seventeen year old daughter who has to be your post-gathering designated driver that you don't. What would be so bad about you and Papa getting along with each other? What are you afraid of?" </p><p>And Geralt can't tell her. He can't tell her that, if he and Emhyr started getting along, they'd have to sort out whatever the hell their feelings for each other are. They'd have to figure out what their relationship is, and it might end up stable. It might end up committed. And even worse, he might like that. Because Emhyr is awful. But Emhyr also had medicine and soup deliveries sent to Geralt when he got horribly sick in November, because Ciri was on a field trip to Gemmera and Geralt was too weak and feverish to get the things he needed for himself. Emhyr paid for the costly repairs when Geralt's junk-scrap truck predictably broke down the day after his road trip to Aedd Gwynvael, calling the mechanic behind Geralt's back because he knew Geralt would flat-out refuse the money if Emhyr offered it to him. Emhyr unexpectedly shipped Geralt a very old handwritten journal about The Caretaker by the first person to ever see the horrifying relict, and Geralt can't guess how Emhyr got his hands on the manuscript - or even found out about such an obscure monster and historical artifact. Emhyr isn't <em>just</em> awful, which would arguably be better for both of them. Geralt's afraid that if he and Emhyr made peace, they'd end up getting married. </p><p>So that's why, despite what a good idea it seems like on the surface, Geralt and Emhyr getting along wouldn't make anything easier. It certainly wouldn't simplify their lives, and Ciri would get dragged into the mess surrounding their relationship. Ciri would have to find out about whatever the hell the two of them have been doing, and she'd have to decide whether she supported it. And if she didn't support it, they'd have to break off their relationship until she went off to college and then keep it away from her when she visited because they need to put their child first. And Geralt would have to deal with the fact that it hurts when Emhyr is gone, that he misses Emhyr when he's gone, instead of seeing it as a relief that he's rid of the man for several months. Geralt can understand why, from Ciri's perspective, it seems like it would be easier for Geralt and Emhyr to get along. But Geralt knows all the reasons it wouldn't be. </p><p>"I'm afraid Emhyr would try to talk to me more," Geralt says, finally. "Not a chance that'd make life easier for me." </p><p>"So ridiculous. I swear. The two of you are less mature than the teenagers I go to school with. One of these days I'm going to send you to Imperial's counselor's office for secondary school level conflict resolution mediation." Ciri rolls her eyes. "Well, that was a good chat. I stopped by your hermit den to give you good news, and then you made me cry and your horrid chair permanently altered my vulnerable young bone structure. And now I have to tell Morvran to find a way to trick you and Papa into a couples counseling appointment. Geralt, you make my life so difficult, what would you do without me?" </p><p>"I really don't know," Geralt admits. "Have less eye makeup and lilac smell on my clothes, I guess. Have a spare room in my house. Have a caramel apple cake all to myself. Have no reason for Emhyr var Emreis to talk to me or drag me to dinners where I embarrass myself by getting sloppy drunk. Hm. Turns out I <em>can</em> think of a few things." </p><p>"Geralt." Ciri swats the top of his head, glaring. "You'd also have no glasses, no cryptid book, and an inexplicable empty space in your heart." </p><p>Ciri's right about all those things. Geralt never expected to be a father, and never wanted to be one, but after ending up with Ciri he suspects that maybe he eventually would have had an empty feeling in his life that something was supposed to be there. And he probably would have died without ever realizing it was <em>a daughter</em>. He doesn't need a spare room and a whole caramel apple cake, he does need glasses, and even Emhyr's presence in his life isn't the worst thing in the world - especially when the sloppy drunkness at the dinners comes from incredible wine he'd never be able to afford without a filthy rich baby daddy. And Ciri's very, very right about the cryptids book. Without Ciri, Geralt wouldn't be writing <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy, by Geralt Bellegarde</em>. He probably wouldn't even be doing write-ups for bestiaries or histories, without Ciri's childhood nightmares giving him a reason to finally do the storytelling he'd given up on. </p><p>And the book is rough. It's fucking rough. Some days, when Geralt is hunched over his notebook scribbling terrible chicken scratch and then taking hours to poke it into his computer using two fingers at a time, he thinks about how the world doesn't need <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy, by Geralt Bellegarde</em>. And he thinks about how, if the world doesn't need it, he's wasting his time and energy writing it. He could just be a metalworker, hating his job but doing something he's good at. Something he knows how to do. Not pretending to be something he's not, doing something he's terrible at without knowing what he's doing. But then Geralt thinks about Ciri, and how much she wants him to write the book. How much she's looking forward to it. How happy she is about it. He thinks about the fact that the world may not need Geralt's weird little monster book, but his daughter does. And now his editor and illustrator - his amazing editor and illustrator, who he wouldn't have met without the book, without <em>Ciri</em> - need it too. And that's enough to keep him going. Everything about the book is worth it, because it's for Ciri. </p><p>"You're right," Geralt admits. "I wouldn't have much of anything at all." </p><p>"I love you, Geralt." Ciri gets to her feet, mockingly imitating Geralt's dad noises - or, at least, Geralt hopes it's an imitation and that the chair hasn't already turned a soccer player in her prime into a creaky stuck-jointed fossil too. Geralt imitates Ciri's imitation of his dad noises as he struggles to his own feet, wincing the whole way at his damn  bullet-wrecked knee. Not so bad, his ass. Ciri sticks her hands under Geralt's armpits and tugs him the rest of the way up, then hugs him. "You are high-maintenance, but I love you a lot." </p><p>"Back at you," Geralt says, and ruffles up Ciri's hair. He gets even more nervous about her soccer games after her accident, the one that left her with a facial scar and him with a psychological scar, but in a strange way, it's made it a little easier for him to let her go. Because he knows she's tough, she's in good hands with her team and coaches and staff, and she was a lot less upset about her injury than he was. Ciri is a badass. "Go win your game." </p><p>"I will," Ciri replies, and doesn't even get mad about the hair-ruffling. "Keep working on your book, don't lose your glasses, tell Dettlaff and Regis I said hello, don't let your disgusting dirty tea-stained mugs pile up again, and do <em>not</em> fight with Papa while I'm gone - I don't want to come back to some kind of <em>incident</em>. Text me if you need me." </p><p>"Can't promise you I won't fight with Emhyr. I can't control what he does. Neither can manners, ethics, or common fuckin' decency." Geralt tries to fix Ciri's hair to be nice, and, just like always, makes it worse. "The rest, you got it. Good luck, be safe, and text me every night." </p><p>Ciri fixes her bun on the way out of Geralt's office, grumbling about how he doesn't need to ruin her hair just because his own is always a mess, and Geralt smiles and shakes his head at her back. He can't even muster his usual annoyance when he hears Ciri's too-fast luxury car zip out of the obtrusive garage holding the massive satellite dish <em>in the meantime</em> of The Internet. They all make Ciri happy. Geralt lifts the sheet over the office window for a minute to make sure Ciri gets down their treacherous steep gravel driveway safely, realizing in a moment of panic that he doesn't know if more snow has fallen since he shoveled the driveway and sprinkled salt on it last night, but it hasn't and Ciri is fine. Once her car is out of sight, Geralt drops the sheet-curtain and turns back to the smudged pencil mess notebook and the now frozen-up word processor. </p><p>Geralt checks his email one more time before he gives up on book stuff for the day. He needs to get some sleep, because he knows exactly where he's going tomorrow night and he's going to need to be well-rested for it. Nothing wears Geralt out physically and mentally like fucking Emhyr var Emreis. Geralt doesn't expect to find anything interesting or desirable in his inbox, but then his heart leaps when he sees an email from Dettlaff van der Eretein. His heart does a lot of leaping these days when he sees any form of communication from Dettlaff and Regis. Or sees Dettlaff and Regis. Geralt's starting to think he might be in too deep. Maybe whatever's going on with him and Emhyr should be lower on his list of relationship worries. Because Geralt's starting to realize there's another relationship he might want, if it wouldn't make his life so fucking hard and wouldn't be so fucking impossible, but can't have. </p><p>Dettlaff's email has an attachment and a characteristically straightforward subject line: Painting of Queen Endrega. The Queen Endregas of Flotsam, a group of three fearsome arachnid-like monsters who supposedly prowl the Flotsam Forests, are the subject of the most recent chapter Geralt sent Dettlaff and Regis. Geralt opens the email, clicks on the attachment, then clicks on the attachment again, then frowns and clicks it again - and then double clicks the attachment. Fuck, he doesn't know why he keeps forgetting he has to do that. The large and high quality image of a Queen Endrega pops up fairly quickly, fully loaded despite the giant file size. Damn Emhyr and his life-improving satellite dish. Maybe getting The Internet won't be the worst thing in the world. Geralt blinks in confusion at the endrega, then finds his lips curving in a little smile. The insectoid is drawn adorably, small and cartoonish and squishy, with big shiny eyes and pointy little fang teeth and paw-like feet. Geralt didn't think it was possible to make a Queen Endrega cute, but Dettlaff has managed it. Geralt looks at the body of the email, because he has a habit of jumping straight to the attachment when Dettlaff sends him art. </p><p>Dettlaff has written:<br/>
<em>Dearest Geralt,<br/>
The final painting of the trio is much more fearsome. This harmless creature is merely to keep you company.<br/>
Yours as always,<br/>
Dettlaff</em></p><p>Geralt prints out the Cute Endrega and tapes it up on the sheet-curtain over the window. He never does stuff like that, and it takes him five tries to connect to the printer, but he sticks with it and gets his Cute Endrega. Dettlaff said it the picture was meant to keep him company, so Geralt should make sure it gets used for its intended purpose. It's the least he can do for Dettlaff's trouble. He writes back a quick <em>Thanks Love it. Yours to, Gerallt</em> and sends the email before he can over-think the sign-off. Or catch the typos. After that, Geralt looks at the Cute Endrega for a while before he shuts his notebook, turns off his computer, and goes to get some sleep so that tomorrow he can go make the same mistake yet again. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Geralt and Emhyr are lying in bed together, cuddled up to talk before falling asleep, and Geralt is so content that it's a full-body experience of warmth and happiness.</p><p>Geralt is feeling particularly docile after the way Emhyr took care of him earlier. Emhyr put a custom-made leather collar on Geralt, engraved with the sun from the var Emreis family crest, then slowly wrapped ropes around his chest and arms in a complicated pattern that made Geralt look like a piece of art. By the time Emhyr tied Geralt's wrists to the bed and sat back to appraise his work with critical amber eyes, Geralt was painfully hard and desperate. Emhyr overstimulated him with his cock and tongue and favorite toys until Geralt nearly begged him to stop, because he was so overwhelmed by the pleasure that he thought he might shatter. Instead, Geralt closed his eyes and gave himself over to Emhyr completely because he knew that Emhyr would gather up and hold together his pieces if he broke. After Geralt had come around from an orgasm so intense it blacked him out to find himself untied, Emhyr thanked him for his trust as he gently kissed the light rope indentations all over Geralt's upper body. Then he hand-fed Geralt snacks while declining to reveal how long it had taken him to learn and perfect the complex rope bondage. They'd played with various restraints and accessories before, but the effort Emhyr put into giving Geralt what he liked had him nearly as overwhelmed as the pleasure. Geralt left the collar on until they had to bathe, and only took it off because Emhyr promised he'd get it back later. </p><p>After a long and languid bath, which ended with Geralt splashing water at Emhyr until he finally broke and admitted how much education and practice with a professional had gone into his quest to safely and erotically turn Geralt into a rope art display, they had dinner. Emhyr didn't even complain when Geralt stole half his portion of pan-seared cod, looking amused by how shamelessly Geralt speared it and stuffed it in his mouth. They didn't fuck again, both at their limit from how intense the earlier scene was, instead opting to lounge on the living room sofa and sample a few of the exquisite wines that Emhyr had been gifted by a fashion designer cousin in Toussaint. Once they were both tipsy enough for Emhyr to tell Geralt that his conditioner-softened hair felt like "a fascinating new variety of silk", Geralt lay with his head in Emhyr's lap to let him pet it and then drifted in and out of a light doze. It was snowing outside, wind howling, so they had the fireplace crackling to provide a little extra heat. Emhyr's newest outfit for Geralt was a big and soft white cashmere sweater with equally soft pants and thick socks, and between the clothes and the wool blanket laid over his legs and the fingers in his hair, Geralt was possibly the most comfortable he's ever been. Emhyr started to read a management consulting book and make snarky comments about it, and Geralt laughed because Emhyr has more of a sense of humor than anyone gives him credit for. When Emhyr finally tossed the book aside and lifted Geralt up to kiss him, Geralt went totally limp to make Emhyr carry him to bed. </p><p>And when Emhyr picked him up, Geralt knew. </p><p>Geralt knew that he and Emhyr are, despite everything, perfect for each other. Perfect <em>together</em>. </p><p>So here they are. Curled up in bed with Geralt's head resting on Emhyr's chest, stripped down to their underwear to enjoy the contrast between the warmth of the thick blankets and the sound of gusts of wind and snow outside the window. Basking in the soft light of the bedside lamp, the pleasant exhaustion, and the feeling of skin on skin. Geralt idly wonders if he could get Emhyr to put the collar back on him, maybe loosely tie his wrists together and then hold him like that, but he doesn't want to move and he doesn't want to let Emhyr go. They'll have plenty of time for that over the next few days, Geralt suspects, and plenty of time for Geralt to get Emhyr to indulge the several new fantasies the collar has given him. Emhyr kisses Geralt's hair a few times, Geralt blinking more and more slowly with each kiss until he lets his eyes remain shut. </p><p>"Don't tell you, but I missed you," Geralt mumbles. He feels Emhyr's chest rumble with a chuckle, and nuzzles his cheek against it. "You got in a few days late. Your assistant's email just said you'd be pushing your trip, didn't say when or why. Thought maybe you weren't going to come." </p><p>"I was engaged in a game of strategy with a fearsomely intelligent woman," Emhyr says, wrapping his arm tighter around Geralt's waist as if to say <em>I'm here now</em>. "But, following a vicious battle, I emerged victorious." </p><p>Geralt raises his head a bit, squinting up at Emhyr. "Did you ruin another chess tournament?" </p><p>"No. I ruined something a bit more complicated than that." Emhyr's voice is good-humored, and he uses his free hand to tug the covers a little further up their bodies at a gale of wind that rattles the sturdy windows. "I was called in by Imperial Industries to fight a hostile corporate takeover. Led by the CEO of the appropriately named Usurper Technologies - I have a contentious and bitter history with that corporation. I prevented the takeover, then took advantage of the situation to reverse the tables and execute a takeover of Usuperer. Imperial had long desired such a takeover, but believed it impossible - and, fueled by a desire for revenge, I proved them wrong. I will soon be overseeing one of the Continent's largest ever mergers, during which Usuper will be fully subsumed by Imperial. Very satisfying. But, as you can imagine, this was a period of great turmoil." </p><p>"Yup. Sure can imagine," Geralt says, even though he has no idea what any of that means. He got the part about Emhyr doing something fueled by revenge, and that's enough. Emhyr is ruthless when he wants revenge. </p><p>"So you understand why I was delayed, and why you could not be provided with further details or explanation. It was a developing situation that required utmost confidentiality. And still does - you heard nothing. I trust you not to reveal this information to anyone before the merger announcement on the 29th." Emhyr rests his hand lightly on Geralt's head, holding it to his chest. Between that and the heavy blankets wrapped around his nearly nude body, Geralt feels so wonderfully safe. "But there was never any doubt in my mind that I would return to Kaedwen as soon as I was able. Perhaps a few years ago, I would have remained in Nilfgaard to revel in the wake of my triumph. Yet, every year I find that celebrations of my victories hold less and less appeal for me. I simply wanted to have a quiet glass of scotch, then come home to visit Cirilla and you." </p><p>"Mhm. No revealing info. My lips are sealed," Geralt mumbles, the last syllable lengthening into a yawn. The pressure of Emhyr's hand and the faintly lingering effects of the wine are making him sleepy. Emhyr's palm cups the back of Geralt's head, fingers curling lightly into his silky hair, and the gesture is gentle but protective. Possessive. Three words, <em>I trust you</em>, are weighing pleasantly on Geralt as well. Two more, <em>come home</em>, are heavy enough to anchor him to this spot. That's fine with him. He wouldn't want to be anywhere else. And knowing that Emhyr wouldn't either, that he'd rather be here than in the spotlight of glory, means so much. Finally, Geralt says, "You should come home more. Visit Ciri and me more. I like it when you visit Kaedwen. And visit me." </p><p>"I'm aware," Emhyr says. He scratches at Geralt's scalp, sending a pleasant wave of tingles down his neck and spine. Geralt feels like they're glowing in the same way as the dim bedside lamp. "I assume that if you didn't enjoy my visits, you wouldn't scream to all of Kaedwen that you want me to fuck you until you break in half. Or that you've never felt a dick as good as mine. Or any number of phrases that contain the word <em>pound</em>. Lips are sealed, indeed." </p><p>"You don't have a problem with the screaming while you're pounding me," Geralt shoots back. Despite all the filthy things Emhyr's heard him say while they're fucking, and the even filthier things Emhyr's seen him do, Geralt can't help but feel a little embarrassed by the sound of his dirty talk coming out of Emhyr's mouth while they're out of the moment. If Emhyr starts reciting back the things Geralt was moaning while getting the ropes wrapped around his collared and trembling naked body, Geralt might die. </p><p>But then Geralt thinks about how good it felt to be in those ropes and that collar, and thinks about Emhyr designing the collar for him and learning how to tie him up  like that because he knew how good it would make Geralt feel and wanted him to feel that way. He thinks about Emhyr picking out those soft clothes and socks, remembering what fabrics Geralt likes and that he secretly enjoys wearing sweaters that are too big for him, to keep him warm and comfortable. He thinks about being the person Emhyr wants to spend a quiet night in sipping wine and reading books with, the person Emhyr wants to sleep cuddled up with and wake up next to, the person who is one of the only two people that Emhyr wants to come home to. He thinks about Emhyr scooping up and carrying his malleable body to bed even though they both knew he was capable of walking. He thinks about Emhyr sending him soup and medicine when he was sick, paying for the repairs when his truck broke down, sending him a rare and priceless cryptid research artifact, talking him down from a near panic attack in a hospital waiting room. He thinks about Emhyr giving him his favorite foods, his favorite kinds of sex, his favorite kinds of aftercare, his favorite plants for a garden at his home. He thinks about Emhyr doing anything and everything he could to give their daughter the wonderful dilemma she now faces, deciding which of the many bright paths for her future will be brightest. He thinks about Emhyr holding him after his nightmares, soothing him, making him feel comforted and safe. Emhyr is capable of making Geralt feel so, so safe. </p><p>And Geralt says, "It's not only the sex I like." </p><p>Emhyr doesn't pause his stroking of Geralt's scalp. "Oh?" </p><p>Geralt nods against Emhyr's chest. "Yeah." </p><p>"What else is it that you like?" Emhyr's voice is soft as he runs his fingertips through Geralt's hair and down the ridges of his spine, making him shiver. </p><p>"When you hold me." </p><p>"And?" </p><p>"When we sleep next to each other." </p><p>"And?"</p><p>"When we wake up together." </p><p>"And?" </p><p>"When you feed me, and dress me, and watch me garden." </p><p>"And?" </p><p>"When you take care of me." </p><p>"And?"</p><p>"When you help raise our daughter." </p><p>"And?" </p><p>"When we're not fighting, when we're not hating each other, when we're not a second away from killing each other, and we're acting like co-parents. Like a family." </p><p>Geralt doesn't know what Emhyr will say to that. To him finally admitting out loud the thing he's been struggling to come to terms with, to the person he's been struggling to come to terms about. What he likes, and what he wants. That he wants <em>Emhyr</em>, despite all the ways they clash and how much they hate each other. But Geralt knew with such certainty, while Emhyr was lifting him up and holding him in his arms, that they're perfect for each other. Perfect together. They're doing their relationship all wrong, but if they tried, they could get it right. So Geralt doesn't know what Emhyr will say to hearing all the things he loves about what they are, but Geralt needed to admit those things to him. Geralt needs Emhyr to know. </p><p>Emhyr says, "I like those things too." </p><p>This is when Geralt realizes something else: he doesn't hate Emhyr. </p><p>Geralt doesn't hate Emhyr. Geralt used to hate Emhyr, but now he just <em>wants</em> to hate him. So he pretends he hates Emhyr, and that makes Emhyr pretend he hates him too. And Emhyr doesn't hate Geralt. Emhyr used to hate Geralt, but now Geralt just <em>wants</em> Emhyr to hate him. So Geralt keeps pretending they hate each other, and it lets them both keep pretending they don't know they don't hate each other. Because as long as they keep pretending they hate each other, they can keep from addressing how they actually feel about each other, which is - </p><p>Sex isn't the only thing that gives Geralt and Emhyr the ability to get along. Sex used to be the only thing that gave them the ability to get along, but now Geralt just <em>wants</em> to think it's the only thing that gives them the ability to get along. So they keep pretending they can't get along without sex, that the way they act towards each other and talk to each other after sex isn't how they really are, that they're just helpless against the chemicals in their brains. Because as long as they keep pretending they can't get along without sex, they can keep from addressing what their relationship actually is, which is - </p><p>Geralt and Emhyr love each other. </p><p>Year after year, Geralt and Emhyr act like they hate each other. Year after year, Geralt and Emhyr act like they can only get along because they have sex. Year after year, both of those things have become less and less true until now neither of them is true at all. They've been pretending for years, and they'll keep pretending for years, until they look back and realize how stupid it was to pretend they don't love each other. Like they hadn't loved each other more and more each year. </p><p>Geralt knows, looking back, when they reached the point of no return. It was last year, when Emhyr put that gold sun pendant necklace around Geralt's neck and they both acted like it wasn't a third anniversary present. They both knew it was the third anniversary of the first time they slept together, they both knew the other one knew, and how hard they tried pretend that neither of them knew just made it even more obvious that they knew it was. Three years of convincing themselves and each other that they hated each other and their relationship was only about sex, and yet, they both saw that day as <em>their anniversary</em>. Geralt told Emhyr that his possessiveness kink would be a lot hotter if it didn't involve slapping his garish Nilfgaardian old-money snob logo on the things he claimed, Emhyr told Geralt that it was bold to assume he would want to claim something so ill-mannered and tackier than any "logo" that could be slapped onto it, and then Geralt told Emhyr to go to hell and shoved him so that Emhyr would fling him bodily onto the desk in his home office and fuck him bent over it. Feeling the sun pendant swinging around his neck with every thrust drove Geralt wild, and he came as soon as Emhyr pulled the chain tight against his throat. After that, they passionately kissed for a long time and Geralt wore the necklace hidden under his shirt for weeks. </p><p>And if that incident doesn't encapsulate whatever the hell Geralt and Emhyr are trying to do here, then nothing does. </p><p>Geralt and Emhyr are acting like they're locked in some kind of battle, and yet all they're doing is playing a game that both of them are losing. The whole thing is ridiculous, and kind of pathetic. They're too fucking old to keep pretending, and they're not getting any younger with every year they spend playing that stupid game. Geralt doesn't know what they're trying to do, what they're trying to prove, and why they're so afraid of what will happen if they stop playing the game and face the fact that they love each other. He understands why their prides would make it hard to back down from their rivalry, and he understands why their needs to maintain power would make it feel dangerous to be the one to point out that their animosity is fake. And he thought he understood why a genuine relationship between them would be a problem. But now, Geralt is thinking they're afraid to be together - and he doesn't know what they're afraid will happen, but it's <em>something</em>. They're too fucking old to be this afraid. That fear is what's making them waste so much time pretending they hate each other when they could be spending that time being happy together. </p><p>Geralt and Emhyr's relationship is a mess because they've <em>made</em> it that way, and it's entirely their faults. It wouldn't be so complicated if they weren't purposely complicating it, and there wouldn't be so much conflict between them if they didn't turn every disagreement into a conflict. They would still have disagreements, and frequently, but the talks they have after sex prove they're capable of working things out reasonably. And yet, fight after fight, they choose not to. They're wallowing in this miserable state of affairs and blaming each other for it, when the whole thing is jointly self-inflicted. Geralt almost feels an overwhelming despair, knowing it doesn't have to be this hard. And it's time for this stupid, self-destructive game to stop. Geralt can use sex as an excuse if he has to, just this one last time, if it means they can stop wasting their lives. He's finally willing to be the one to back down first. He's tired of the fights, the games, the pretending, of <em>being tired</em>. </p><p>The three of them, Geralt and Ciri and Emhyr, could be a family. And, fuck. Geralt wants them to be a family. He and Emhyr don't need to get married, or move in together, or wear matching rings - though if Emhyr wanted to do those things, Geralt would. He and Emhyr don't need to have an exclusive relationship or center their lives around each other, and they wouldn't - neither of them wants, or needs, to set those kinds of restrictions. He and Emhyr don't need to make anything official, unless they want to. They just need to be a family. </p><p>Geralt wants the three of them, he and Emhyr and their daughter, to be a family. He wants it so much that he braces himself, counts Emhyr's heartbeat for ten beats, and then backs down. </p><p>"Come home more." Geralt kisses Emhyr's collarbone, nuzzling the hair that Emhyr so tenderly washed against his neck. "Stay longer. Be in the same town as Ciri and me for more than a couple weeks a year. Spend more than a few days with me. Wouldn't be so bad. We could fuck, fall asleep together, wake up together, sit around and be boring together. You could teach me how to pick out clothes, and I could teach you how to garden. We could go to Ciri's school stuff together, and not act like we don't know each other. Stop hating those damn family dinners. Raise Ciri together, both be there for her. Could be nice. And we'd have a lot more time for all that if we didn't fight." </p><p>Emhyr is silent for several long moments. His hand stills in Geralt's hair. Then he says, something painful in his voice, "Why must you tempt me? Do you think I don't regret that my work takes me away from Cirilla so much? Do you think I am satisfied with a sparse few weekends with you? That my life would not be much easier if I wasn't constantly enduring our arguments?" </p><p>"Then do something about it," Geralt says. It sounds like a challenge, or a dare, but it's a plea. He wants Emhyr to do something about it, he can admit that, and he's no longer above asking for it. "Nobody's putting a gun to your head and making you work your ass off on the other end of the Continent. You could find projects here in Kaedwen. Take a few more days off when you're here, instead of working through most of the only time you get with Ciri and me. Seems like there's plenty of work you can do from Kaedwen, or you wouldn't shut yourself in your home office for so much of your visits. Nobody's putting a gun to your head and making you have arguments with me, either. It's not like <em>I'm</em> enjoying them. And Ciri definitely isn't." </p><p>"You would think it's so easy, wouldn't you?" Emhyr's chest rises and falls beneath Geralt's head with a long inhale and then a longer exhale. He runs his hand up and down Geralt's side, stroking the bare skin gently. "In a way, Geralt, I envy you. And in another way, I'm grateful that it seems so easy to you. It means you are ensnared in far less entanglements, and carry far fewer burdens." </p><p>"Why can't it be that easy?" Geralt wriggles out of Emhyr's hold and pushes himself into a sitting position, sinking handprints into the indent in the soft memory foam mattress where he'd just had his body comfortably curled up on it. He looks down at Emhyr and frowns. "You want me to think that Emhyr var Emreis - best strategist on the Continent, one of the most powerful people in business - can't get unstuck from a few <em>entanglements and burdens</em>? Bullshit. Know I'm just a lowly metalworker and ex-human shield without an education, but even I can tell you've got enough money and power to live on your own terms. You know enough about negotiating to solve an argument without turning it into a battle. And you've got enough self-awareness to know you're pretending you don't have a choice because you don't want to change your lifestyle or be less of a disagreeable bastard." </p><p>At the look on Geralt's face, Emhyr sits up as well. His eyes, those soft amber eyes that have spent the whole night looking at Geralt like they cherish him, are darkening. "Perhaps you should stop proving this disagreeable bastard's point. The concept of external responsibilities seems to have escaped you. How do you propose I maintain that supposedly self-liberating money and power if I disappear on my clients, refuse critical projects, leave my subordinate consultants floundering without guidance or communication, and allow companies to fail because I have decided to simply take several days off from advising them? I am also open to referals to enterprises in the power void of Kaedwen with any relevance, should you accomplish the miracle of finding one, and suggestions on how to cordially negotiate with someone who is determined to be equally disagreeable." </p><p>"My first suggestion is to be less condescending." Geralt's good mood is fading fast. He snaps to activate whatever technology controls the master bedroom's main lighting system, even though the sudden burst of light sends a stab of pain through his sensitive cat eyes and leaves them momentarily blinded. Geralt wants Emhyr to see his crossed arms and displeased expression with full clarity. "You want an enterprise in Kaedwen with relevance? Stop looking at businesses, and start looking at your family. There's some strategy consulting for you. Should I mail my invoice to "your home", or a hotel room in Nazair?" </p><p>"Your point is taken. I concede that my approach to your question, and the phrasing of my answer, were excessively adversarial." Emhyr puts his hand on Geralt's knee in a way that's clearly intended to calm him. Geralt flickers a look down at it, then back up to Emhyr's face, frowning to let him know it's going to take a lot more than a soothing touch to fix his mistake. Geralt's not holding his breath, though. Emhyr only says he's "conceding" something when it's to set up an even stronger and sharper trap to spring. And sure enough, the bastard says, "I was merely attempting to convey that you were unaware of the existence of the factors you were dismissing, proving that your belief in the simplicity of the situation stemmed from well-meaning blissful ignorance. And, further, that you had chosen to overlook your own inciting and sustaining role in our arguments." </p><p>"Congratulations. Your less adversarial phrasing made you sound like even more of an asshole." Geralt glowers, smacking Emhyr's hand off his knee. For a second, he's actually impressed. That sex, and the following evening of romance, should've been good enough to buy them a whole week without any real conflict. Yet, somehow, they've managed to overcome all of that to fight with ten minutes of getting in bed for the night. A fight about fighting with each other, no less. Considering that only a few hours ago Geralt was completely surrendering his body and his trust to Emhyr, and being rewarded with pleasure and care and nourishment and love, this might count as a new low. But thinking of it that way, Geralt drags himself back from the brink. He can't let this become a new low. Not when he just decided to back down from the animosity, diffuse the tension, and do whatever he had to do to bring his family together. Emhyr is being an asshole, but unfortunately, he's not wrong: Geralt did brush him off, and he's not helping. So Geralt takes Emhyr's hand and places it back on his knee. "You're right. Didn't actually know what I was dismissing. Wasn't nice about it either. Guess those are some pretty big entanglements and burdens." </p><p>Emhyr nods, squeezing Geralt's knee. "I don't expect you to understand what I deal with, day in and day out, week after week and year after year. Even if I were to list it all out for you, you could not understand it without living under the weight of those constant, unending pressures. You are right; I do have a choice, and I am not trapped. I could walk away from it all, consequences be damned. But, just as I don't expect you to understand how it feels to live my life, I don't expect you to understand how it would feel for me to attempt to live any other way. I simply ask you to believe me when I tell you that, while my responsibilities are a prison of my own making, I could not bear to break out of them and live a dull and quiet life in a largely barren place." </p><p>"Making progress. But I still don't think you're getting this." Geralt leaves Emhyr's hand where it is, but he frowns again. He's starting to feel cold, with the way the blankets slipped off his mostly bare body when he pulled out of Emhyr's warm embrace and sat up. "I'm not asking you to drop everything and walk away. Just asking you to carve out a little more time to spend with Ciri and me. Don't know why you're jumping to extremes. And, gotta say, calling family life "dull" and Kaedwen "barren" is putting you back in condescending asshole territory. I'd started to believe you didn't think "your home" wasn't good enough for you. Was I wrong?" </p><p>"You were not wrong," Emhyr says, and the way he says it leaves Geralt with doubt. If that was the end of the sentence, they might be able to move back into safe territory. But Emhyr has a habit of not ending his sentences in safe places. And sure enough, Emhyr continues the damn sentence: "- but consider my position as well. You complain that I spend only a few days a year with you, and yet, you have never once proposed visiting me. You accuse me of making insufficient attempts to see you, but you have never offered to accommodate <em>my</em> life. You know I would arrange and pay for everything if you ever wished to join me while I am traveling, and yet, you have never brought it up. If you find my company so important, then you don't have to wait for interims between my projects - you could seek it out." </p><p>"Let's think through why that might be." Geralt is starting to hear his blood rushing in his ears again, starting to feel his skin prickle with irritation and the top of his hand burn where Emhyr is touching it. If Emhyr thinks condescension is the way to respond to someone not knowing what they're dismissing, then Geralt is happy to follow his lead. "Here's an idea. Maybe I don't think it'd be fun to get dragged around the Continent to see you for an hour a day. Wait on the bed for you to come back exhausted at midnight, take out your job stress by ripping my clothes off and pounding my ass, then fall asleep without cuddling me and leave to go back to work before I wake up. Or - here's another idea. Maybe I stay in Kaedwen because our seventeen year old daughter lives here, she needs an adult guardian, and you're not around, so I take care of our daughter by myself." </p><p>"Cirilla travels quite a bit as well," Emhyr points out, and Geralt feels satisfied seeing the way a muscle in his sharp jaw twitches as he tries to respond calmly to his own condescension being used back at him. "She has her soccer games, and her school field trips, and her university visits, and sleepovers with friends. There are many times that she is safely in the hands of other adult guardians, often not even in Kaedwen. I am not asking you to leave our teenage daughter unattended - in fact, though she is admittedly two months away from adulthood, I would rather you not." </p><p>"This, here, is why you couldn't be a good father to Ciri even if you wanted to." Geralt shakes his head, and he can feel an anger building inside him that sounds a lot like the viciously whipping wind outside. He doesn't want to be touching Emhyr anymore, doesn't want to be looking at him. He crawls to the other side of the big bed, ignoring the painful protests from his overtaxed knee, and turns his back to Emhyr. Geralt stares at the closed black curtains blocking out the torrent of snow, wishing he could see the storm. Like its frantic energy and violence might bring him a bit of catharsis. "What happens if something goes wrong? Ciri gets hurt during a soccer game, gets her face split open by a cleat that leaves her with a permanent scar, and needs somebody who's ready to rush to the hospital to be with her no matter what country she's in. Ciri gets sick during a school field trip and needs to come home early, with soup and extra blankets waiting for her. Ciri gets her heart broken by her girlfriend and wants to leave a sleepover in the middle of the night, to go on a long drive through the forest and then cry in her dad's arms while he tells her a story about the nightwraith that haunts the place. These aren't hypotheticals, Emhyr. They've all happened. Not surprised you didn't consider them, because you weren't there for a single fucking one of them. I'm not gonna go be your kept man in Nilfgaard, arranging <em>my</em> life around your job too, and risk not being there to take care of Ciri either." </p><p>"I had assumed that -" Emhyr begins. </p><p>Geralt cuts Emhyr off before he can say something that might make Geralt commit a murder tonight. He turns on the bed, glaring holes in the man's forehead so he doesn't have to look into his eyes and see how cold they must've gotten, then abruptly holds  up his hand. "Don't care what you assumed. It's probably bullshit. Most of your assumptions are bullshit. Like assuming you know what's best for everybody, and then assuming what the best thing for them is. Pulling Ciri out of her school and putting her in some snobby academy you decided on, throwing out all my furniture and filling my house with random shit you picked, sticking big new buildings and terrain alterations and cables on my property, trying to sway Ciri's future by getting her to go to your university, <em>forcefully taking partial custody of my daughter</em>, and that's not even the fucking half of it. You shove yourself into every part of our lives you can, whether we want you to or not, because you assume that things wouldn't be better off without your meddling. And now you're telling me I should travel around for your job, like I don't have a life of my own. I'm writing a book, Emhyr, you aware of that?" </p><p>"Acutely aware," Emhyr says, in the most chilling voice Geralt has ever heard from him. His face has that expression it gets when he's about to execute a strategy that will leave his opponent destroyed. Then, with the weight of a man who knows he's saying something that can never be taken back, Emhyr says, "Who do you think persuaded your publisher to give you a book deal?" </p><p>"What?" Geralt feels a wave of ice sweep through his veins, and he's not sure if it's coming from Emhyr's voice or his own blood. He stares at Emhyr's unreadable face, trying to decide if Emhyr is fucking with him. Then he sees the briefest flicker of regret in Emhyr's unbearably sharp amber eyes, and he knows. He doesn't want to believe it's true, but he <em>knows</em>. Even if he hadn't seen that split second of conscience from one of the least conscience-burdened people he's ever met, he would have known. Emhyr doesn't make empty threats, and he doesn't make empty implications. If he implies he's behind something, then he is. Geralt says, quietly and carefully, "Emhyr. What did you do?" </p><p>"A slapdash, error-ridden travesty of an pitch for a purely hypothetical bestiary-and-fantasy-novel mash-up about imaginary monsters, from a first time would-be author with no real plan, no literary education, no agent, no knowledge of the query or publishing processes, and no grasp on proper spelling and grammar. Such a shoddy, amateurish, and improperly submitted disaster did not meet the bare minimum of professionalism, let alone inspire confidence." Emhyr's tone is cold and haughty, his eyes closed off, and if he had a suit on then he'd look and sound exactly like the man who stood in a courtroom six years ago and told the judge that one look at Geralt would provide her with innumerable reasons why Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon deserved a better guardian. It's funny, because Geralt was just thinking that the third anniversary necklace was the turning point in his and Emhyr's relationship. It looks like they've stumbled into another one. </p><p>"I asked you what you <em>did</em>." Geralt grits his teeth. Emhyr's description of his hopeful email to Fairy Light Press, the email that made Geralt feel excited about an idea for the first time in years, hurts. Fuck, it hurts. But Geralt can't let it hurt, because he can't let Emhyr win. He can't let Emhyr, six years after that incident in the courtroom, make him feel as inadequate and small and helpless as he did that day in his shabby secondhand suit and scarred up face and terrified cold sweat. And he can't let Emhyr get away with whatever domineering bullshit he pulled. Not this time. He's let Emhyr get away with things too many times. "Give a couple people some generous donations? Triple the publishing house's stock price by restructuring all their departments? Set someone up on a date with one of your rich aristocratic cousins? Send their office a solid gold fruit basket with a polite note asking if they'd arrange a vanity publishing for your boy-toy and keep their mouths shut about it?" </p><p>"I did not bribe anyone." Emhyr has the nerve to look offended by Geralt's suggestions, like the real misdeed here is Geralt accusing him of executing his manipulations through artless methods. "The Editor-in-Chief at Fairy Light Press, Tissaia de Vries, is a friend of mine. I asked her if by any chance your attempt at a query letter had been reviewed, and if so, what the sentiment towards it had been. Tissaia looked into the matter and found that - miraculously - your misdirected email had been glanced at before being swiftly rejected. I suggested that there was far more potential  and viability in your book idea than met the eye, and made her aware of your previous works of monster-related writing - which you failed to mention in your email, along with countless other pieces of critical information. Then, through various machinations, I convinced Tissaia that your idea deserved a chance."</p><p>"Various machinations." Geralt snorts sardonically, shaking his head. Classic Emhyr way to describe his signature combination of influence, negotiation, quid pro quo, intimidation, status, and scheming. "So you didn't throw money at people, you swung your dick around. Got it." </p><p>"Had you told me ahead of time that you were interested in writing a book, then that book would not have been rejected by a publishing house. I would have procured you a well-connected literary agent to provide you with a basic education about the publishing industry and process, and then liason for you with multiple publishers and negotiate you a far better deal than I am sure you got. I would have also procured you a skilled editor to assist in the preparation of your book proposal, along with at least <em>part</em> of an actual manuscript, and tutor you on the finer points of spelling and grammar." Emhyr's looking at Geralt like he's an idiot for not crawling to him for help, the same look he'd give someone who was stranded at sea and ignored a life raft to keep swimming towards the shore. Geralt feels sick when he realizes that's exactly how Emhyr views his courageous attempt to make something of himself. "But you chose not to tell me until the die had been cast. So I took the obvious course of action to accomplish your objective." </p><p>Geralt snaps. He turns away from Emhyr's disdainful expression, letting Emhyr judge the scars on his back instead of the one on his face, and gets up from the bed where he'd just decided he'd be willing to <em>marry</em> the man. Where he'd convinced himself that, if he and Emhyr accepted they were in love, they could work their problems out. Geralt wants to claw off the skin that Emhyr lovingly stroked and kissed. He was hopeful and stupid. No matter how many arguments the two of them talked out, no matter how much they improved their communication, no matter whether they put rings on each other's fingers and played house and had a cute little ceremony about it, they wouldn't have been able to fix their relationship. And that's because accepting they were in love wouldn't change who Emhyr is, and how he views the world. How he views other people. Geralt and Emhyr could stop pretending they hated each other, stop pretending they needed sex to like each other, and they still would've been left with a terrible obstacle that honesty couldn't solve: Emhyr isn't <em>pretending</em> to be the way he is. </p><p>The curtain rings make a terrible scraping sound on their metal rod when Geralt yanks on the edges of the curtains and throws the cloth aside. They move smoothly and quickly, and then Geralt's standing in his underwear - Emhyr's underwear - looking out the big glass windows into the ugly night. He stares through the thick veil of heavy snow that the wind is whipping into a tempest, trying to see the hills in the distance. He can't see them, but he breathes towards the darkness and tries to feel less trapped. He needs to escape this room, the room he'd convinced himself that he'd happily share in the house he'd happily move into if Emhyr asked him to, but he can't. He can't leave until he makes Emhyr understand what he's done, what he <em>always</em> does, or at least makes him hurt like he's made Geralt hurt. But in the end, Geralt knows he won't be able to do either. Emhyr is the most brutally logical man Geralt knows, and he's still impossible to get through to. And Geralt wants to feel that desire for revenge, the one that drives Emhyr to figure out exactly how to tear someone apart and then do it mercilessly, but he can't. All he can feel is hurt. </p><p>It's even colder with the curtains open, nothing to hold back the chill that's still coming through the thick windowpanes. They rattle, and the ice in Geralt's veins encases his bones. Geralt's not surprised by that Emhyr would do this, only sickened. Because it's just another example of what Emhyr does, and always has done: interfering in people's lives for what he thinks is the greater good, giving them gifts and opportunities that he thinks are generous, without considering whether the victims of his generosity might not feel the same. Whether they might deserve the chance to refuse those gifts and opportunities, even if refusing them is against their own best interests. Whether they might deserve the chance to decide what their own best interests are, even at the risk of being wrong. Emhyr analyzes, plans, restructures, and controls. So Geralt isn't surprised that Emhyr would go this far. </p><p>But, in a vague way, Geralt is stunned. Because he'd never considered that Emhyr might be behind this all of this. Everything he's gotten and everything he's done in the past ten months. His new path, his achievements, <em>his book</em>. He'd never considered that his new life might be yet another scheme manufactured by Emhyr. </p><p>"It never crossed my mind to tell you I was thinking of writing a book. Know why, Emhyr? Because I didn't think you'd help me with it. Turns out I was right to think that." Geralt presses a hand to the window, needing to feel the solid surface and the frigid sensation to ground himself. "You would've torn my book down, or you would've changed it. If I didn't fuck you before I told you, then you would've mocked me and told me the book was an error travesty mash-up from a would-be author with nothing. If I fucked you before I told you, then you would've set professionals loose on it until they'd written a totally different proposal for a totally different book. No matter how I told you, you would've decided you didn't think my book was good enough, and you would've destroyed it either with meanness or kindness." </p><p>"Would assistance have been so terrible?" Emhyr asks, and Geralt can tell it's a genuine question. "Had I not intervened, either before or after your ghastly proposal was submitted, then it would have been permanently rejected without more than a few seconds of consideration. You would still be working long hours in a metalworking shop for the barest amount of money, pridefully refusing to reconsider my offer to financially support you, feeling constantly trapped and miserable. Should I have left you in a situation that was slowly breaking you, Geralt? Should I have turned my back on your suffering when I had the ability to help you? Should I have allowed your dream to be shattered, rather than doing what I could to achieve your aim?" </p><p>"You should have <em>allowed</em> me to have my own life." Geralt grits his teeth. "It was my fucking aim, and I didn't ask you to achieve it. But of course you felt like you had to, because you don't think anybody has a life that's all their own. You think they have a collection of situations sitting there for you to analyze and interfere in. You think everyone is a consulting project. Fuck, you're only part of my life because you shoved your way into it and changed the whole thing without giving me a say in the first place. But that's not enough for you. Kinda funny: instead of giving me the choices I deserve, you gave me a book deal I <em>don't</em> deserve." </p><p>"You did deserve your book deal," Emhyr says. Geralt can hear the slightest fabric rustling noise as he gets up from the bed, then watches Emhyr's reflection in the window glass as he crosses the room to stand a few feet behind Geralt. He starts to lean forward and reach out his hand, like he's going to take a few more steps and rest it on Geralt's shoulder, then thinks better of it and lowers his arm back down to his side. "I intervened <em>because</em> you deserved it." </p><p>"If I deserved it, you wouldn't have had to intervene. Don't fucking patronize me, Emhyr. Can't tell someone their rich important asshole sugar daddy used "various machinations" to get his editor-in-chief friend to pull a piece of trash out of the bin, then expect them to believe that piece of trash should've gone anywhere else. Can't hide the fact that their work is trash rescued from the bin, and get everybody else to hide it from them, then expect them to believe that trash deserved to be rescued. I'd ask if you think I'm an idiot, but you've made it pretty damn clear that you do." Geralt is shattering. He drops his numb hand from the window and lowers his face into it, letting his silky hair fall forward to cover it. He concentrates on the ache that his freezing palm and fingers press onto his forehead and nose and cheek. Anything to dull his mind enough to hold it together. </p><p>Geralt is humiliated. He's shaken. It's impressive how much damage Emhyr did, how fast he did it, and with how much precision. Emhyr really is a master at his craft. It took him only two conversations to break Geralt: a nice conversation with an editor-in-chief, and a mean conversation with an author. Then again, six years ago in that awful courtroom, it only took him a few words. It's gone now, the fragile little scraps of the beautiful things that Geralt had finally managed to start scraping together: self-esteem, confidence in his writing ability, belief in himself, the feeling that there were people who genuinely thought he was good enough. All because of Emhyr's sick, twisted kindness. Emhyr's cruel, warped generosity. Emhyr's misguided, painful way of trying to help the people he loves. The worst part of it is that Geralt knows Emhyr genuinely believes he was in the right, and that he'd do it all over again. And Geralt just doesn't understand how Emhyr thinks that "ends justify the means" is an acceptable philosophy to guide his treatment of other people's lives. </p><p>After a long time Geralt says, his small and broken voice nearly lost under the ferocious howling of the wind, "Why, Emhyr? Why did you do that?" </p><p>Emhyr replies, "Because I wanted you to be happy." </p><p>"You wanted me to be happy." Geralt raises his face from his hand and smiles a nasty, bitter grimace at his reflection. He shakes his head, because it's fucking unbelievable. Emhyr wanted him to be <em>happy</em>. "You knew how to make me happy, you just didn't like it. Could've stopped fighting with me, or being a condescending asshole. Could've stopped disappearing for months for work, then spending a couple days fucking me and pampering me and giving me false hope, then looking down your nose at me the rest of the time. Could've let me live without wondering what gift you're gonna force on me next, what garbage you'll throw out, what opportunity you'll influence Ciri into, what happiness you'll trick me into. But you didn't want to. So you convinced yourself the best way to make me happy was to build me a career I can't handle on a foundation of lies, where everyone's looking at me as a fucking pity project. A charity case. A rescued piece of trash." </p><p>Emhyr's voice is sharp. "Geralt. You are not -" </p><p>"You wanted me to be happy," Geralt says, turning around so Emhyr can see that ugly, sour smile, "then you should've kept your mouth shut. Let me look like a blissfully ignorant idiot in peace. People would've still known I'm not good enough to write my fucking book, but at least I wouldn't have been one of them." </p><p>Emhyr's brow furrows deeply. "As I have been trying to tell you, you <em>are </em>-" </p><p>"Was this always going to come out?" Geralt asks. He thinks he knows the answer, but he desperately wants Emhyr to tell him something different, even if he wouldn't believe it. That's how he knows Emhyr has defeated him: nothing he could say would make this better. Geralt runs his hand roughly through his hair, palm still cold against his scalp, so different from the warm and tender fingers that Emhyr stroked it with while Geralt tried to finally tell him that he loved him. He wants to yank on his own hair in anger and frustration, so differently from the way Emhyr pulled it to send him deeper into the throes of pleasure. He wants to claw his nails all over his body, so differently from the way Emhyr sometimes lightly scratches his back after he massages the post-sex soreness out of Geralt's muscles. Geralt knows the answer, but it's half desperate plea and half accusation when he says, "Tell me the fucking truth, Emhyr. Were you actually going to keep this a secret? Did you plan to take this to your grave, or did you know you'd eventually end up slapping me in the face with it? Were you holding onto it, biding your time, waiting for the worst possible moment to tell me about it?" </p><p>Emhyr says nothing. </p><p>"You wanted me to be happy." Geralt laughs, raspy and scathing. "Good job. You fucked it up. Not gonna happen now." </p><p>Geralt stomps across the room and snatches his clothes up from where Emhyr had them folded up on top of the dresser. He yanks the white cashmere sweater and the pants on without looking at Emhyr, shoves his feet into the warm thick socks, and hates how comfortable they are. How well Emhyr picked them for him. The clothes that made him feel so safe and loved just a short while ago feel like luxurious and soft sandpaper on his skin. Geralt wouldn't put them on at all, would march outside in his underwear and work boots in the middle of the storm, except he'd freeze to death. If he freezes to death, then no one will hold Ciri's hand at the hospital or make her favorite tea when she's sick or wipe away her heartbroken tears. No one will find Ciri awake and anxious in the middle of the night and relax her with stories about monsters. No one, however inadequate, will finish Ciri's book. It feels like tactical surrender, Geralt putting his perfect outfit back on. Turning himself, one last time, into Emhyr's pretty and acquiescing dress-up doll. </p><p>"I understand that you are upset," Emhyr says from across the room, at least having the decency not to come anywhere near Geralt. </p><p>"Yeah, no shit. You'd have to have your eyes and ears glued shut to miss that." Geralt turns to Emhyr and gives him the meanest glare he can muster, hoping that for once in six years he can unsettle the man who can shake him like no one else can and never get rattled by a damn thing. "How about you tell me <em>why</em> I'm upset, since <em>that's</em> what you need to understand. Happy to give you a recap: the whole time I've known you, you've fucked with Ciri's and my lives because you think it's justified, which is because you think you know better than us and that you have more of a right to fuck with our lives than we do. And the one time I had a dream for myself, you went behind my back and treated it like a chess piece and then a weapon. Now, how about you tell me <em>why</em> that is a problem, because I don't think you understand that either." </p><p>Emhyr says nothing. </p><p>"Yeah. That's what I thought." Geralt shakes his head, grabbing his phone and wallet from the dresser and checking to make sure he didn't miss a call or text from Ciri due to the noise from the storm and the argument. He didn't. He missed a few texts in the group chat he has with Regis and Dettlaff, but the name - <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> - makes him feel humiliated and overwhelmed and sick. And their names make him feel desperately sad and lonely, make his normally steady hands tremble with a need for something he can't name. He ignores the texts and stuffs the items into the pocket of his pants. "Don't know why I even asked." </p><p>Emhyr says nothing. </p><p>"Won't bother asking you to apologize, either. You've never apologized to me once in six years. Not even for dragging me and my daughter into court kicking and screaming so you could take her back. Never told me why you handled the custody battle that way, either, and I know you didn't give Ciri the full explanation. If you want to make up for the shit you pulled, give me the honest answer you've owed me for six years." Geralt looks Emhyr in the eyes, and finally asks him the question that he never asked for an answer to, because he didn't think any reason would be good enough. Geralt doesn't expect Emhyr to answer, and he wouldn't expect to believe him, but he wants all of Emhyr's secrets and machinations out in the open. "Emhyr, why did you take custody of Ciri in a way that you knew would break both her and me?" </p><p>"The answer is very simple. But you are right, you have both been long owed it. The truth, Geralt, is that I was desperate." Emhyr sits down on the edge of the bed, looking out the window at the merciless snowstorm with a pain in his eyes that Geralt has never seen there before. His usually regal posture is robbed of is usual confidence, the slightest slump in his spine, and he looks so exposed sitting there in nothing but his underwear. Geralt looks at him skeptically, trying to determine if this is some kind of trickery. If Emhyr's going to try to guilt him into mustering up a scrap of sympathy. But that's not Emhyr's kind of manipulation. Emhyr intimidates, he exerts authority, he calculates, he outmaneuvers. He's too prideful, and too unwilling to admit that he's fallible, to play at fragility. Geralt thought nothing Emhyr does could shock him anymore, not after tonight, but he was wrong. He's shocked to finally, after six years, see a moment of vulnerability from a man who refuses to show weakness. "I knew you would not allow me to regain any level of custody of Cirilla. I knew you would likely refuse to even allow me to see her. I was not in a rational place at the time, and a legal battle seemed like my only option. I deeply regret the turmoil and hurt that my actions caused both of you, but in my despair I saw no other way. Surely you, as you love Cirilla with your whole heart, can understand the desperation of a father who could not bear to be separated from his daughter." </p><p>"You separated yourself from her. You hadn't seen her in years." Geralt's voice is harsh.  Emhyr showing a second of vulnerability isn't going to get him any mercy. "If you loved Ciri so much, if you couldn't bear to be apart from her, then why did you abandon her?" </p><p>"I was not myself when I abandoned Cirilla. I was not myself for years after the storm - that day on the boat, the accident that killed my wife and left me in a coma. The brain is a very, very fragile thing. Memories, emotions, thoughts, beliefs, priorities, desires, personality, mindset, love - all these can change in one moment, with one hit to the head. A brain injury severe enough to induce a coma, and a year of lying in stasis - you can imagine what that does to the mind. I woke up with few memories and difficulty in feeling emotion or connection to the world around me, and their return was gradual. In a way, that was perhaps a blessing, since I could not recall witnessing Pavetta's death and the grief of losing her was dulled." Emhyr lowers his face into his hand, a mirror of Geralt's gesture at the window. "I had almost no recollection of my own daughter. I felt no love for her. And since she had been taken in by her grandparents, it was easy to feel that she was not mine. Once I recovered enough of those memories and those feelings, I realized that I had lost Cirilla too, and that it was my own fault. And I knew I loved her, and that she had meant the world to me. So I became desperate to have her back in my life, and acted with the ruthlessness of a desperate man."</p><p>Geralt is jolted by the reminder of Emhyr's accident, his coma, and his dead wife. Those things never really cross his mind. Geralt tends to forget about them, with the way Emhyr seems like <em>he's</em> forgotten about them. Emhyr never brings any of those things up, and never shows any way they've affected him. It's like he locked everything related to the accident and his life before it in a box and tucked it under a bed somewhere, and since Geralt never looks under the bed, he barely ever remembers the box is there and wouldn't be able to unlock it even if he did. Ciri doesn't remind Geralt about the box either; she's only brought up Pavetta a handful of times since Geralt adopted her, since she was so young when Pavetta died that she barely has any memory of her, and when Ciri's mentioned Pavetta it's always in a way that makes Geralt think of her as Ciri's mother and not Emhyr's wife. Geralt never knew the aftermath had been so bad, and Ciri doesn't seem to either, because Emhyr never told them how bad it was. Because Emhyr refuses to show any weakness, even when it means letting the people close to him think he doesn't care about them. </p><p>Or, Geralt didn't think Emhyr had showed any signs of how the accident and his injury or the loss of his wife affected him. He's realizing that he may have been wrong. That he might not have known what to look for, or what pieces to put together. Geralt remembers Emhyr mentioning that he knew what it was like to have frequent and terrible nightmares, and how nice he'd been about Geralt's nightmares even when they could barely stand each other for long enough to fuck, but Emhyr never elaborated or brought it up again so Geralt didn't ask. Geralt remembers the way Emhyr used to refuse to go outside during thunderstorms, but Emhyr said he didn't like to get rained on or have his clothes and shoes ruined, so Geralt rolled his eyes at Emhyr's characteristic vanity and took the explanation at face value. Geralt remembers how desperate Emhyr just said he was to get his child back, but Emhyr had never pointed out that Ciri was what he had left of his relationship with her mother - his wife - and so Geralt didn't make the connection. Geralt won't speculate about whether Emhyr's approach to his job and whether his resistance to forming any consistent bond with Geralt is related, because it's just as likely that Emhyr is a power-hungry workaholic and a difficult person who he's always had a contentious relationship with, but it's not impossible that they're connected. </p><p>Geralt realizes again that he was wrong. He thought no explanation Emhyr could give him for his decision to leave Ciri, or his decision to try to get her back the way he did, would be worth anything. He thought there was no use in asking for one years ago. But maybe he should have. </p><p>After a long time, Geralt comes and sits next to Emhyr on the bed. Emhyr hasn't moved, and Geralt doesn't touch him. They sit there for a while longer, until Geralt says, "I understand. The thing about not being yourself, after the accident. Took a couple hits to the head myself, even fractured my skull once, and I know how bad brain injuries can fuck you up. How some things take a while to go back to normal, and some things never do. It's why I panicked so bad when Ciri got kicked in the face during that soccer game and I thought she might have a concussion - fuck, didn't realize how serious that must've felt to you. Really glad we figured out she'd be okay before I called you. And I know what you mean, about loving Ciri so much that it'd almost kill you to lose her. Doesn't justify how bad you hurt Ciri by walking away from her and then turning our lives upside down and breaking our hearts to get her back, especially when you saw how mad she was at you for what you were doing to get her back, and I'm still never going to forgive you for that. But, I get it. Why it happened." </p><p>"Thank you," Emhyr says quietly, his face still in his hand. "I'm sorry. I have said that to Cirilla a hundred times, but I should have said it to you as well." </p><p>"Yeah. You should've," Geralt says. "And you didn't. But now you have. No use talking about it past that."  </p><p>They sit there together, listening to the wind outside. Then, finally, Geralt puts his hand on the cold and bare skin of Emhyr's lower back. Emhyr leans into Geralt's touch instinctively, the way Geralt always leans into his. Even when he shouldn't. Emhyr usually doesn't do that, though. Emhyr will press against him purposely, but never automatically curls into him like he's seeking comfort. It has Geralt sighing and wrapping his arm around Emhyr's waist, pulling him closer. He's angry, but Emhyr is hurting, and Emhyr's never let himself show hurt around Geralt before. Geralt can't guess at the last time Emhyr showed this side of himself to anyone, but he's going to assume it's been a long time. So Geralt puts the fight aside, and lets them have a couple minutes of truce so he can hold Emhyr and think about how much different things would be if Emhyr had allowed himself to show vulnerability sooner. Or if Geralt had asked him to. </p><p>Geralt eventually tilts his head back, letting out a sharp exhale. "Fuck. This night really went to shit." </p><p>"It did," Emhyr agrees. He sits up a bit, pulling his hand away from his face and running it through his hair to smooth it out. He's not close to his usual straight-backed posture, not yet, but he looks a little more composed with his hair sorted out. And Geralt, because he's about to end the truce, turns his head to kiss that grey streak in the hair by Emhyr's temple that he loves so much. "Absolute shit. That was not my intention."</p><p>And that just about sums it up with Emhyr. It's not his intention to ruin things in Geralt's life. His intention is to do something good, or something he thinks needs to happen. But then it goes one of two ways: either Emhyr fucks it up with his overbearing approach to the situation, or somehow his ruthless instincts get activated and then he crushes people. Emhyr either leaves Geralt feeling like that company whose fortunes he improved through aggressive restructuring, or that company he executed a takeover of because he didn't like something they'd done to him. Geralt never asked to be Emhyr's client or his opponent, and he's tired of being both of those at once. Emhyr's view of the world and methods of interacting with it might make him one of the Continent's most successful strategy consultants, but it makes him a terrible co-parent. And it makes him incapable of being anything more than Geralt's occasional lover. Geralt has to accept that <em>that</em>, not their communication, is the thing that's most seriously broken.  </p><p>"Might not've been your intention at first. But it was your intention when you looked me in the eye and told me everything I'd done by myself was shit, and I'd only gotten anywhere because of you. You wanted to hurt me, when you said that. I can't let that go." Geralt releases his hold on Emhyr's waist, standing up from the bed and crossing his arms. "I can't let everything else go, either. Not anymore. Shouldn't have let it all go for this long. But your <em>interventions</em> always ended up helping Ciri. So I'd tell you to go to hell, and then I'd see how much happier and better off she was, and I'd accept whatever you'd done because I want the best for my daughter. Maybe part of it's my fault, for not giving you any consequences. For not thinking about how your mind works, and figuring out what you thought you were seeing: me eventually realizing your decisions were for my and Ciri's own goods, calming down, admitting you were right, and being happy. You didn't see a lasting problem, you saw a bunch of angry outbursts that wore off once I'd thought them through. But me letting things go didn't mean I was okay with them, Emhyr. And I shouldn't have to tell you that." </p><p>"I -" Emhyr begins, and Geralt again holds up a hand to cut him off, because he's not finished. Geralt's done more talking during this conversation than he has during any conversation in years - six years, actually. Because the last time Geralt called Emhyr out on his shit so extensively was during that damn custody battle, when Geralt was struggling to play lawyer without an idea of what lawyers actually did and did a terrible job at laying out his case. Their arguments since then have been mostly limited to specific actions or situations. Unfortunately for Emhyr, that means a lot of things have stacked up and need to be addressed. Tonight, Emhyr's stacked even more things onto that pile. And unfortunately for both of them, Geralt is in love with him, so he has to shove the pile over. </p><p>"You said you were desperate, when you fought us to get Ciri back. I understood that, with the accident and the head injury and the fear of losing your daughter as well as your wife. Thing is, though, you kept making one-sided decisions and messing with people's lives and doing whatever the hell you wanted once you were back in a rational place. For you, all of that <em>is</em> rational. And that needs to change." Geralt can sense Emhyr starting to shiver beside him, the cold air from the window surrounding his unclothed skin, so Geralt crosses the room again to close the curtains. He closes them a lot more slowly than he opened them. He stands there with the edge of the left curtain in his hand even after they're shut, because for some reason, he can't let it go. "You need to do better, Emhyr. We both do. This whole thing's broken. Year after year, we argue and fuck and pretend we hate each other. You do shit you know I hate, and I let you get away with it. I try to piss you off, and you take the bait. We kiss and make up, play nice for a while, and then act like it never happened. We both know none of this is working, and year after year, we don't do a damn thing about it." </p><p>Geralt turns back around and looks at the bed, but he fixes his gaze across it at the fading indent of his body on the mattress. He can't look at Emhyr, can't see such a proud man looking small and bare. But Geralt feels even more bare than Emhyr when he closes his eyes and forces the last bit of his case out of his mouth, speaking quick and unsteady before he can regret it. "I'm gonna say what neither of us has had the guts to say: I love you, and I want to be with you. I wish we could make our fucking broken relationship work. But we can't. We have to throw it out and start over. Do it right. Ciri deserves better than us. Fuck, <em>we</em> deserve better than us. You need to work on yourself, how you see the world and how you treat people. I need to work on how I deal with you. I want to fix all this shit, because fuck, Emhyr, I love you, and I've fucking loved you for years. Only way to fix our relationship, though, is to end it." </p><p>Emhyr is silent. And it's better that way. </p><p>Geralt opens his eyes. Then he walks away from the bed, away from Emhyr. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob to say, "I don't know if you understand why I'm upset. Don't know if you're even capable of understanding what's wrong with the way you make decisions, or the way you push them onto other people. Don't know if you ever put a name on what this relationship was, or what I was. Don't know if you ever decided what you wanted it, or me, be. But I hope you can figure all that out, and work on it. If you can't, fine, fuck it, I tried. If you can, we can start over. I still love you, even after this, so. I hope we can start over." </p><p>The mansion has never felt bigger than when Geralt walks through it now, alone in the dark with his sock-clad footsteps quiet on the wood and the rugs. It's a never-ending hallway and then three long flights of stairs down from the master suite, and he feels like he's wandering lost for hours along a path he's walked over a hundred times. The thing is, Emhyr has always been part of that path. Geralt's either walked with Emhyr, or to him, or away from him with a promise from them both that he'll return. He's never simply walked away. When he finally reaches the pristine marble floor of the foyer, Geralt looks up at the crystal chandelier hanging dull in the dark and wonders if he's ever going to walk that path again. </p><p>Geralt's outerwear and boots are stashed away in a hall closet just off the foyer. He opens the closet door, switches on the light, sees the gold var Emreis sun embroidered on the ends of the black and gold scarf and the left breast of the black puffer coat, and is tempted to leave them both there. He probably wouldn't freeze without them, even though it takes the heat in his scrap-metal truck ten minutes to start working, and he'll have to trudge through the storm with the way he somehow broke Emhyr's garage door on arrival and had to park outside it. But Ciri would want to know why Geralt had gone and bought a cheap new <em>pathetic rag</em> when he had a <em>perfectly nice coat and scarf, where did those go, Geralt, are you trying to freeze to death and break your poor loving daughter's heart?</em> Funny how, for once, Ciri would be suspicious of the disappearance of clothes from Emhyr instead of the appearance of them. Geralt stuffs his feet into the beat up boots, and then drags the coat and scarf on like they're lined with thorns. The winter clothes that felt so warm and pleasantly heavy this afternoon now feel like stifling unbearable weights. </p><p>Geralt throws open both of the mansion's double doors so he can hear both of them slam shut behind him, and hear both of the locks click shut. It feels more final that way. He doesn't look back at them as he shoulders his way through the storm while crossing the path across the front of the grounds. Halfway down it, he has to remind himself that the greenhouse is sturdy and the groundskeeper is diligent when he feels a pang in his chest that suddenly reminds him of how he might never again see his garden on the grounds behind the home. </p><p>The keys keep slipping through Geralt's fingers as he stands by the door of his truck, fumbling with the keychain in the pocket of his pants. The wind is whipping snow so violently into his face that he can barely see or concentrate, and his hands are stiff and shaking from the cold. That's why he can't get a good grasp on the keys, not because he's giving himself a reason to stand out here a little longer. The smooth metal keeps getting away from his stuck joints, that's the problem. Emhyr isn't going to come running out here to apologize, and Geralt wouldn't want him to. Geralt doesn't want to see Emhyr, he doesn't want to talk to Emhyr, and he doesn't want to know what ultimatums he might consider taking back if Emhyr <em>did</em> come apologize. Geralt wants to think he wouldn't budge on a single thing he said, that he wouldn't trust Emhyr to do better with only a few minutes of thought and then a promise. But if Emhyr dashed out into the storm in his underwear and told Geralt that he was sorry and he understood why he was wrong and that he was going to work on being better, Geralt's afraid he might actually believe that promise. And Geralt knows, with complete certainty, that it would be an incredibly painful mistake to trust a desperate promise from Emhyr. </p><p>Geralt's shivering hard by the time he gets the keys out of his pocket and into the door of his truck, yanking it open hard against the gale. The coat and scarf protect part of his body from the weather, but the pants are uselessly flimsy because they weren't meant to be out in a winter storm. Geralt wasn't supposed to be outside tonight. He was supposed to sleep snuggled up with Emhyr, safe and warm, and not have to be given outdoor clothes for several more days. And he can't help but laugh, hearing the voices that echo over the awful noise after he starts the ignition and the engine grates and grinds and sputters to life. <em>Fuck. This night really went to shit. It did. Absolute shit. </em></p><p>The roads are empty as Geralt starts the drive back towards Daevon. Nobody else is outside tonight, because nobody would be outside unless they had no other choice. Just so happens that Geralt is one of the unlucky ones. It's funny, how walking out on Emhyr was supposed to be Geralt's big moment of putting his foot down and yet even that has gotten him backed into a corner. Living in the hills of Kaedwen has given Geralt plenty of experience driving in snow and wind, at least, and he got the truck back from the Emhyr-funded repairs with nice new snow tires. An advance parting gift, it turns out. Geralt concentrates hard on the road anyway, because it'd be stupid to let his mind drift during treacherous and potentially icy conditions, and it keeps him from thinking about -</p><p>- fuck. </p><p>Once Geralt gets far enough into Daevon, traffic lights start popping up. He ignores them, because there's nobody to stop for, until he instinctively brakes for a red light. And that moment of pause is enough for it all to crash down. Geralt crosses his arms on the steering wheel and rests his forehead on them, and it crashes down <em>hard</em>. </p><p>All Geralt's fears about his inadequacy were valid. All his suspicions about his shortcomings were true. All his moments of self-doubt were little shards of reality piercing the bubble he was unaware he was living in. Geralt was right to worry, every time he got the feeling that he was on shaky ground. He was right to feel uneasy about the million things that gave him pause, stopped him in the middle of scribbling out a chapter, made him falter while reading Regis's feedback, kept his mind running while he stared out the window of his home office late at night. Geralt was right to ask himself all those <em>hell</em> questions. How the hell he got his book deal. Why the hell anyone would devote time and energy and attention to his work. Where the hell the sparks of support for him and his idea came from. What the hell anyone saw in his book, or in him. Who the hell would care about his weird monster book. Geralt thought he might never get answers to those questions, figuring they were nebulous and out of his reach, but it turns out they were pretty simple: <em>Emhyr, Emhyr, Emhyr, Emhyr,</em> and <em>fucking Emhyr.</em> And it turns out that the <em>only</em> answers to those questions might be <em>Emhyr, Emhyr, Emhyr, Emhyr,</em> and <em>fucking Emhyr.</em> So Geralt was right to ask himself those questions. And Geralt was also right to, deep down, not really want to know those answers he figured he'd never get. He was more right about that than he ever could've known, because the answers are much worse than he ever could've feared. </p><p>It all makes sense now. Not only why Geralt got his book deal, but why the book's development is being handled the way it is. Why the publisher took a scrap of an idea and then gave it to the most hands-on developmental editor they had: they wanted the book to be written into something they might've accepted without <em>various machinations</em>. Why the publisher leaned so heavily into the illustrations part of that scrap of an idea: they wanted to concentrate on the most enjoyable part of it, and do as much as they could to solidify the pitifully scatterbrained concept. Why the publisher has left Geralt to his own devices, with his editor and illustrator wrangling him and presumably handling all communication and updates with to higher-ups: nobody in charge wants to see hide nor hair of the book or Geralt until it - and he - isn't a complete fucking waste of their time. Geralt only has Regis and Dettlaff, two of the best people that have ever happened to him and two of the happiest parts of his miserable fucking life, because his publisher thought he was <em>useless</em>. </p><p>The worst part, though, isn't what this means for Geralt. It's what this means for Ciri. Ciri was so proud of Geralt - still <em>is</em> proud of him. Because she thinks a big and reputable publishing house decided Geralt's monster book was amazing and wanted him to create it. She believed in <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> and Geralt's talents more than Geralt ever did. And this whole time, she's believed in a lie. She's believed in an impostor who was totally oblivious to what he was. She believed in her dad, and without knowing, he let her down. Geralt has only one option: to lie to his daughter, yet again, about another big part of his life. Because Ciri will be crushed if she finds out the truth. She'll have her heart broken if she finds out that she filled it with an illusion. She'll be disappointed if she finds out that the accomplishment she was so impressed by, the accomplishment she also took credit for, was achieved through someone else's intervention. And she won't be proud of Geralt anymore. It'll feel terrible for Geralt to see Ciri feeling proud of him when he knows he doesn't deserve it, and it'll feel like a knife in the gut every time she says the words he'd wanted for so long to hear, but the alternative would be so much worse. Geralt couldn't bear to hurt Ciri. He couldn't take away something important to her - because his accomplishment, and her pride in him, has become important to her. All Ciri's done, this whole time, is support him. Ciri doesn't deserve to be crushed. Not like Geralt was. </p><p>This was all Emhyr. This whole time, it was Emhyr. And maybe Geralt should've known, or at the very least, he shouldn't have been surprised. Because, in the end, it's always Emhyr. Everything big that has happened to Geralt ever since he was destroyed by the man in a courtroom six years ago has been Emhyr. He should've known that the achievement of his dreams wouldn't be an exception. </p><p>Emhyr has given Geralt so much over the past six years, and has taken so much away from him. Emhyr has given Geralt more than he ever could've imagined, and he's given Ciri even more than that. <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> is something Emhyr both gave him, and took away. It came with a whole package of things that have now been lost: Geralt's budding confidence, his changing self-image, his growing belief that he was creating something that people wanted, and his little bit of hope that there was a possibility he could have a <em>career journey</em>. </p><p>Maybe the biggest thing Emhyr gave Geralt, though, was himself. Maybe Emhyr is the biggest thing that Geralt has lost. And Geralt doesn't know if he's lost Emhyr forever. </p><p>Geralt can't begin to think about what he's lost, if he's really lost Emhyr. A co-parent, a lover, a partner, maybe even a future. Geralt really thought everything would change tonight, when he figured it all out: that he doesn't hate Emhyr, that he's in love with him, and that he wants them to be a family. Geralt thought that, finally, they could truly be happy. And now, Geralt wishes he'd never figured any of it out. This would be easier, if Geralt could hate Emhyr. Geralt wants to hate him. He wants to unleash his rage and his pain on the mere thought of Emhyr, blame all of it on him, get some catharsis by wishing horrible things upon him. He wants to turn Emhyr into a faceless irredeemable evil who set out to destroy Geralt's life without mercy, one whose motives are either horrible or unknown. Geralt doesn't want to understand Emhyr, doesn't want to sympathize with him, doesn't want to love him. But that's not the kind of person Geralt is, and it's not the kind of person he <em>can</em> be - or even wants to be. Geralt can't hate Emhyr, not even after all this. Geralt still loves him, still wants him, and still wants the two of them and their daughter to be a family. Geralt still wants the two of them to start over.</p><p>Geralt still hopes that he and Emhyr can start over. </p><p>The traffic light is green when Geralt finally drags his head up from where it's resting on his arms, the bright color dimly visible through the thin layer of snow that's built up on the windshield while he was stopped. He listens to the labored creaking of the windshield wipers as they try to clear the heavy flakes away from the blurry glass, and watches more snow whip by in the wind. There's something nice about it, being lost inside the storm. There's something comforting about being out here on the road, all alone, wrapped in the turmoil of the weather. Since there's nobody to stop for and nobody to move for, Geralt could probably stay here for hours. But he won't, because he's had enough crash down on him tonight. Later, laying in bed by himself in the dark and waiting for the nightmares to come overtake him, he might find the thoughts crashing down on him. But for now, Geralt's had enough of them. So Geralt sits up straight, puts his hands back on the wheel, watches out for ice on the road, and follows the green light through the snow towards home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>if you need something a little happier after that ending, here is <a href="https://wraithproblem.tumblr.com/post/640420406005825537/suggestive-solutions">a short and fluffy emhyr/geralt snippet set the day after scene 1</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>some amazing fanart for this fic:<br/>stickynote's <a href="https://stickynote7.tumblr.com/post/640695688934703104">lovely art of geralt scribbling out a draft for his book!</a><br/>omaano's <a href="https://omaano.tumblr.com/post/646478712286691328/how-is-your-progress-on-your-book-going-okay">gorgeous art of geralt and emhyr cuddling in bed!</a></p>
<p>warnings in end note.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The stark white wall of the art gallery has a water stain in the shape of a wolf head directly beside the seaside cliff painting that Geralt is standing in front of, and Geralt is getting fully absorbed into its uneven edges. </p>
<p>"Geralt? I don't wish to pull you from your mental position atop the Desolate Sea Bluff, should you be enjoying it there, but as you have been staring at it for a three full minutes I feel that I should check on whether you would like me to retrieve you." Regis's voice snaps Geralt out of his daze. Geralt turns his head to look at the editor, blinking owlishly. "Ah, there you are. I am aware that my ongoing commentary regarding the painting and its artist has been verbose, and that this verbosity can cause the proverbial eyes to glaze over, but you seemed to have been lost in your mind rather than the canvas." </p>
<p>"I'm here," Geralt says, as he brings himself out of the strange amoeba-esque expanse of the wolf head. Regis is kind of right, but Geralt was more lost in his head than his mind. And in the wall. Nothing around him feels real, even with the bright lighting and the vibrant chatter of the art people scattered around the gallery and their wooden-floor footsteps echoing hollowly around the sparsely furnished space. That could be because Geralt had five different nightmares last night, ranging from Fairy Light Press stopping all publication of new books, to Geralt and Calanthe being lost on a boat during a storm, to Ciri breaking her arm during a soccer game. That one had Geralt texting Ciri at 3 AM in panic and then tensing up in anxiety until she replied that she was fine at 6 AM. It could be because everything that happened last night feels like a nightmare too, since Geralt dashing out of Emhyr's mansion into a raging snowstorm with his heart broken seems like something his hellish sleep brain would turn up. It could also be because he thought he was an author doing his own thing with his own book and now he's discovered that the foundation of that life is Emhyr. There's a lot of reasons Geralt might not be processing what's going on around him. Or within him. </p>
<p>"Glad to hear it." Regis smiles, lightly touching Geralt's back. His hands aren't particularly warm, from what Geralt can tell, but they feel warm to him. The high ceiling has the metal pipes exposed and the heat isn't filling the room well. "Would you like a bit more time with the Desolate Sea Bluff, or shall we move on?" </p>
<p>"Nice cliff," Geralt says, indicating the jagged edges of the tall rock protruding from the churning waves of the violent water at the bottom of it. It reminds him a little too much of the sea from his nightmare. "But we can move on." </p>
<p>Geralt's here in this trendy art gallery in Northwest Daevon because Regis and Dettlaff, for inexplicable reasons, decided they wanted him here. One of Dettlaff's artist friends, Orianna, is having an art show event that Dettlaff called an "opening", with a bunch of paintings that will be auctioned off to raise money for an orphanage in a few weeks. The two of them though Geralt might enjoy those paintings because according to Regis they're "reminiscent of the haunting settings painted with words between the future covers of <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>". Geralt doesn't want to think about the fucking book, but it's his job to think about the fucking book, so he gives in to thinking about the fucking book. He's not sure why Regis and Dettlaff decided they wanted to bring him along, when it'd would've been easier to just send him pictures of the paintings. And he shouldn't have agreed to go when he knows he's terrible company today, and that he shouldn't be inflicting his dark mood on a nice couple trying to enjoy a pleasant evening at an art gallery. But Geralt needed to get the hell out of the house, where all his thoughts are a lot stronger. He can't concentrate on the art, and he doesn't want to be out in the world surrounded by stuff and people, but at least he can admit it's what he needs. Geralt could really use some time with Regis and Dettlaff, too. Even if they'd probably be better off without him. </p>
<p>Regis keeps his hand on Geralt's back while walking him to the next painting. It's a cloud-obscured moon over single leafless tree with long cracking branches, planted in front of a run-down, collapsing building that looks like it was once a beautiful house. The front door is dangling from one of its hinges, paint stripped off and peeling, the whole building off-kilter as its foundation crumbles into the sparse dead grass on the ground around it. Geralt gets how that feels. Maybe that shows, because Regis stops in front of Tree-Shadowed Crumbling Home and turns to inspect Geralt's face. </p>
<p>"Are you quite alright?" Regis asks, his smile replaced with a slight frown. "You don't look well." </p>
<p>Geralt's sure he doesn't. In fact, he knows he looks like shit. The dark circles under his eyes are so deep they look like part of his face has sunk, his skin is ghastly pale, and the state of his hair betrays the way it hasn't been trimmed since Emhyr's last visit and now won't be trimmed tomorrow. He's wearing a thick zip-up hoodie over one of his last-resort outfits, jeans with worn-out knees and a drab grey shirt that looks aged, since he didn't do laundry before he left for Emhyr's and he sure as hell isn't going to wear anything from the stash of clothes that man previously gave him. Geralt couldn't muster up enough fucks to give to fix any of that, and it's not like Regis and Dettlaff haven't seen him looking terrible before. </p>
<p>So Geralt looks at the slumping house and brushes the question off with a noncommittal, "Didn't sleep much last night." </p>
<p>"Come with me," Regis says. Geralt lets himself be guided to a bench a few feet away, not seeing any point in asking where they're going or why. Regis sits down on the bench and indicates for Geralt to join him with a small gesture, and Geralt flops down beside him and looks down at a scuff mark from a shoe on the light wood floor in front of his boots. Regis pauses after an inhale of breath, like he's trying to decide how to approach what he wants to say. Finally Regis says, "I've told you that, as your editor, it's my responsibility to ensure your mental and physical wellness for the sake of your productivity. It is also my duty as a friend to support you in whatever way I can, and that means nudging you when I can tell there is more to a story. I hope you will be willing to confide in me if I ask what's troubling you." </p>
<p>It's that <em>as a friend</em> part that gets Geralt. After the way Regis poured his heart out to Geralt the last time they met, the way Regis was willing to trust him with difficult events he'd gone through, Geralt figures he owes his friend honesty in return. He's not sure what to call the thing that happened between him and Emhyr at the end of their fight, given that they never locked down what they were to each other in the first place, but neither of them would deny that they had some kind of relationship and that it ended. So Geralt admits, still looking at that arc-shaped scuff on the shiny wood, "Last night. Had a breakup." </p>
<p>"Oh. <em>Oh</em>. I wasn't aware you had - well, never mind that now. Geralt, my poor dear. I know the pain of a broken relationship well, and I'm sorry you must feel it now." Regis rubs Geralt's hunched-over back in long and gentle strokes. It makes Geralt want to curl up and not move for a while. He thought he wanted to be alone in the knowledge of that breakup, and figured he would be, since he can't tell Ciri about it and he didn't think anyone else would ask. But sharing it with someone and getting sympathy for it, whether he deserves that sympathy or not, validates that it's okay for him to feel as fucked up over the whole thing as he does. "I am, as always, here for you. Anything I can do to help, anything at all, simply say the word." </p>
<p>The most helpful thing anyone could do would be to go back in time and yank those damn words out of Emhyr's mouth before he said them. <em>Who do you think persuaded your publisher to give you a book deal? I took the obvious course of action to accomplish your objective. I wanted you to be happy.</em> Or go back in time to keep Emhyr from meddling in the first place, from doing the same damn thing he always does where he wants to be helpful and then his domineering mind does that misguided thing it does and he fucks it all up. Fucks Geralt up. </p>
<p>But then Geralt feels Regis's hand rubbing his back and thinks about his soft words of sympathy, thinks about Regis calling them friends, thinks about Regis sitting here with him in the middle of an art gallery to make sure he's okay. He wouldn't want to lose that, if someone went back in time to keep Emhyr from going to the editor-in-chief of Fairy Light Press and using his <em>various machinations</em>. Wouldn't want to lose Regis. Wouldn't want to lose Dettlaff, either. He's too far gone for that - too far gone for <em>them</em>. Like Emhyr said, the die has been cast. So maybe Geralt wouldn't have a time traveler take back Emhyr's meddling. Just the part where Emhyr told him about it, and made everything more miserable by telling Geralt it all happened because Emhyr wanted him to be happy. </p>
<p>"Well, we know you need some rest. Have you eaten today?" Regis asks the question as he catches Geralt's hair tie, which is slipping off of his improperly tied up messy half-bun due to the gravity of the way he has his head slumped forward and down. Regis combs Geralt's frizzy and uneven white hair out with his long fingers and sharp nails, and it feels so nice that Geralt finds his eyes squeezing shut for a moment. Or maybe that's due to the feeling of someone taking care of him when he's at such a fucking low point. Regis puts Geralt's hair back up in the same style, but much neater and more secure than Geralt had it. Then he makes a little <em>hmm?</em> noise to let Geralt know he's not getting out of the question. Geralt wasn't hungry at any point today, so he didn't eat. He shakes his head, and gets a soft and sympathetic noise from Regis. "Then that's the first order of business. Shall we go get you some dinner - or breakfast, I suppose, depending on whether you subscribe to the time-based or ordinal classification of meals?" </p>
<p>Geralt shrugs. He's still not hungry, and he doesn't want to drag Regis away from the art if he's having a good time, but he knows Regis won't take no for an answer. Geralt should've lied and said he ate, because now Regis is probably concerned he's going to starve to death and will only take yes for an answer. And that means he's going to have to deal with Geralt's dour post-breakup ass for even longer. But it's too late now. At least Regis didn't mention hauling Dettlaff along with them. </p>
<p>"Let's be off, then. I'll get Dettlaff," Regis says. Of course. Geralt looks up and opens his mouth to protest, because he doesn't want Dettlaff to get dragged away from his friend's show just because Geralt needs a sandwich or something, but Regis puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him from saying anything. "Dettlaff can only tolerate crowds of strangers for so long, and he's already seen all the paintings many times over. He helped Orianna set up the show, and he's a regular guest at her studio. No doubt Dettlaff is being pestered with questions - he and Orianna are both members of the Gharasham Collective, a close-knit group of mysterious artists whose dark-themed work garners a significant amount of interest in local art circles - and will be grateful for an excuse to retreat without seeming impolite to Orianna."  </p>
<p>Geralt nods slowly, because the explanation checks out. He can't handle crowds of strangers for long either, especially ones asking him questions. He's now interested in the Gharasham Collective too, since he hasn't heard much about Dettlaff's personal life and didn't know he was part of a popular artists' group. He'll have to ask more about that later. It'll be nice to see Dettlaff too, since he's been too busy helping out with the show - and apparently getting sucked into conversations - to spend time with the two of them past a quick greeting when Geralt arrived. "Yeah. Go save Dettlaff. I'll hang out here." </p>
<p>Regis squeezes Geralt's shoulder in a quick promise to return, then gets up and clutches the strap of his messenger bag. The space on the bench beside Geralt immediately feels cold and empty, and Regis hasn't even left the vicinity yet. But then he does, and Geralt watches the back of the editor's patch-elbowed grey tweed coat disappear into the crowd of young and hip-looking art people. Geralt's very out of place, with the way everything about him looks weathered and old: his clothes, his hair, his scarred face, those dark undereye circles. He's used to feeling out of place and weathered, though, so he closes his pained cat eyes against the bright lights of the gallery and sits in his pathetic slumped over position and waits for his friends to come back and get him. </p>
<p>And waits. </p>
<p>"Geralt. I'm very pleased you could come." Dettlaff's deep voice brings Geralt out of his partially meditative state an indeterminate amount of time later. It's possible, with how tired he is, that Geralt fell asleep for a bit. Geralt looks up at Dettlaff, and, oh. The illustrator is always handsome, but he's styled himself a little more than usual tonight and he looks amazing. Dettlaff's got smoky eye makeup on, his hair parted to the side with a bit of it falling over his forehead, and his usual all-black ensemble is - tight-fitting. Very tight-fitting. Dettlaff's got his coat draped over his arm instead of on him,  making it clear exactly how closely those clothes fit. With the coats and cardigans Dettlaff always wears, Geralt didn't know what the exact contours of his tall and broad body are, but he sure does now. Every contour of it, seems like. They're nice contours. And Geralt needs to stop observing them, Dettlaff's chest in particular, because Dettlaff is capable of seeing where Geralt's eyes are going and so is Dettlaff's partner Regis who is standing right beside him. Geralt is looking respectfully, but it's undeniable that he's looking. </p>
<p>"Dettlaff looks delectable tonight, doesn't he?" Regis is smiling teasingly at Geralt, and Geralt freezes helplessly. "A piece worth as much attention much as the paintings. I would be happy to provide my commentary and insights on him as well. You appear interested in further study." </p>
<p>Dettlaff looks amused as well, and it's not clear why. The gears in Geralt's mind are grinding together horribly as he tries to figure out anything, anything at all, to say. But then he remembers his habit of making things worse when he talks, and keeps his mouth shut, and, fuck, feels his cheeks flushing a bit. Worsening everything, Dettlaff says, "I would encourage your further study." </p>
<p>"Dettlaff, what did I tell you about flustering the poor thing," Regis chides, as Geralt's face remembers how to full-on blush. Like Regis didn't start all this. No, that was Geralt, not keeping his eyes where they belong, which is somewhere that isn't Dettlaff's apparently fit body. Or his handsome face. Or his piercing blue eyes. Geralt can't figure out why they're teasing him or encouraging him or flustering him, or why he can't handle it when they do, or - "Alright, I'll allow you to have just a bit of fun with our dear Geralt. He does look so darling when he's flustered." </p>
<p>Geralt could die. He could die, and it'd be the best possible outcome. </p>
<p>"Come, Geralt. I will be intercepted if we don't make haste," Dettlaff says. And, to Geralt's alarm, Dettlaff leans down to tightly grasp Geralt's hand and pull Geralt to his feet. Dettlaff doesn't let go of Geralt's hand when he's standing up, either. He keeps holding it, big fingers curled around Geralt's. He smells like a rich and complex cologne and the vaguest hint of secondhand cigarette smoke. Geralt doesn't know what to do with Dettlaff holding his hand any more than he knew what to do when Regis held his hand, so he does the exact same thing he did then, which is to stay exactly how he is and try not to let his brain go too haywire. "Where is your coat?" </p>
<p>It's shoved in the back of Geralt's closet, along with the scarf. As soon as he got home last night, Geralt tossed them into his pile of Emhyr Clothes and slammed the door. He couldn't bring himself to wear them for any longer than he had to, and he couldn't bring himself to put them back on. The embroidered gold suns that once made him feel pleasantly claimed now make him feel terribly marked. Like he can't get rid of the claim staked on him by the man he tried to walk out on, on his body or in his head or in his heart. Ciri's not around to scold Geralt about freezing, so Geralt's perfectly happy to freeze. The zip-up hoodie is the thickest article of clothing he owns besides the black puffer coat he's condemned to the depths of his closet, and it's nowhere near thick enough for the dead of winter on the night after a snowstorm, but it's good enough. Better than putting on a single damn thing Emhyr gave him. </p>
<p>"Forgot it," Geralt mumbles, yanking the zipper on the hoodie the rest of the way up with the hand that's not still in Dettlaff's. It's a flimsy excuse, but maybe with how shit he looks, they'll believe his brain is that scrambled up. "Ran out of the house in a hurry." </p>
<p>"You'll get frostbite like that," Regis says, with the kind of tenderness in his black eyes that's usually reserved for Dettlaff. Regis unwinds his green plaid scarf from around his neck, then drapes it over Geralt's and wraps it a few times before leaving the long ends to layer over Geralt's front. Dettlaff lets go of Geralt's hand long enough to put on his coat and gloves, then takes it again. Regis smooths the scarf down on Geralt's chest, then glances at his other bare hand and takes it in his as well. "Best to cover up your fingers, too. I know you draft by hand, so we can't have your valuable tools turning into icicles." </p>
<p>Geralt trails along between the couple as they lead him out of the art gallery by the hands, his mind blank except for one fleeting thought that wonders what he stumbled himself into by agreeing to eat dinner. </p>
<p>The place Regis and Dettlaff bring Geralt to is a pub down one block and around the corner, so Geralt would've been fine without the scarf and the makeshift gloves. He's not complaining about either of those things, though. He's confused at how right it feels to be holding both of their hands, when he's literally getting between the couple. But they both seem perfectly happy to have him there, between them, and it's making Geralt feel like he's the odd one out for questioning this. It feels strange to get what he's been wanting. A little sad, maybe, knowing Geralt definitely feels a lot more about holding the couple's hands than they feel about holding his. Knowing they haven't been wanting this as much as he has, haven't wanted him between them as much as he's wanted to be there. Which is probably why Geralt is the one questioning it - because he's the one whose chest is warm and aching, and they're the ones who feel nothing unusual about this. But Geralt will take it, because he's wanted it so much, and it feels right. Too right. Worryingly right. </p>
<p>The pub is warm and cheery, laughter and lively conversation and music and heat enveloping the three of them as soon as they step in the door. The dark wood bar is clustered with people who seem to be regulars chatting with the bartenders, and the smell of fried food and beer is in the air. There are decorations all over the walls, mostly sports memorabilia related to the Daevon Demons and Daredevils - the city's men's and women's soccer teams have a lot of fans clustered in West and Northwest Daevon - and the Kaedwen Knights and Queens hockey teams. At first Geralt thinks the place is going to be too loud and overwhelming for him, but then he remembers that it'll be socially acceptable to get a little bit drunk if they're in a pub and everything is fine. </p>
<p>"This pub is one of our favorite spots in Northwest Daevon," Regis tells Geralt, as they weave through patrons with more than a few extra chairs pulled up to tables, and stake out a table of their own. Geralt's disappointed when the two of them let go of his hands, knowing he's probably not going to get that chance again, but the squeeze they give his hands first and his nonexistent expectations makes it easier to let them go. Geralt sits down at the table while Dettlaff and Regis take their coats off, and he expects Regis to ask for his scarf back, but he doesn't. "For the food, mainly. Though they're generous with pouring their beers, and the atmosphere takes me back to a time in my youth where I was fanatical about the Dillingen Defenders. Dettlaff is quite amused by pictures of me from that period, as he does not understand the passion that soccer can inspire in one. Though, I confess, neither of us knows anything of hockey."</p>
<p>"Soccer dad here. I get the passion thing." Geralt smiles, trying to picture Regis yelling in the stands at a soccer game with a Defenders shirt and a painted face. He's taken Ciri to Daredevils and Demons games several times, and her appearance wasn't as dramatic, but she did a lot of screaming. "Ciri recently got into hockey, too. Funny story, a girl from Skellige got her into it. Cerys - captain of a girl's soccer team in the Skellige League that Ciri's team played an exhibition game against. Guess the two of them really hit it off, cause they're always trash talking each other on video chat about hockey. The Kaedwen and Skellige hockey teams are rivals, so Cerys is coming to visit in March to go to this big double-header game with Ciri. Kaedwen Queens and Knights against the Skellige... Sirens and Sea Dogs, think I got that right. Ciri talks about it so much that I should know." </p>
<p>"Oh, my." Regis chuckles, with a knowing look in his eyes. "Geralt, I believe your daughter has a crush. And a rather significant one." </p>
<p>"Oh. Huh. Guess she does." Geralt blinks. Now that Regis has pointed it out, he doesn't know how he didn't put that one together. Ciri's never shown interest in any sport but soccer, and then suddenly she started talking about hockey and a girl and talking about hockey with that girl - well, shit. Maybe Geralt's been buried even deeper in the book than he thought. Buried too deep to see what's right in front of his eyes, apparently, whether that's his daughter falling for a girl from Skellige or his ex-whatever-they-were being the reason that book happened. Ciri dramatically claimed she was swearing off dating and devoting her life entirely to soccer and her studies after her last girlfriend broke her heart, but Geralt should've known that wouldn't last long. "Yeah. She does. Major crush. Well, Cerys seems nice."</p>
<p>"I should hope so. I believe you're in for a meet-the-parent situation imminently." Regis chuckles again, then shakes his head. "Geralt, how on earth did you become so bad at deciphering signs of romantic interest?" </p>
<p>"Last few times, Ciri's just told me she has a crush," Geralt protests. He frowns, gesturing at the Queens sweater pinned on the wall near their table as if it's personally confounded him. "She didn't get into hockey about it." </p>
<p>"Your obliviousness is precious, though nearly impressive," Dettlaff says. He has the same knowing look in his eyes, and he turns to Regis to exchange a glance with him that Geralt would call long-suffering if there was any reason for the two of them to be jointly suffering right now. </p>
<p>"Yeah, yeah. Make fun of the dumb dad who missed his daughter falling head over heels for the girl she's always talking to. Laugh at the guy who couldn't figure out someone is into the person they're constantly flirting with. I earned it." Geralt sighs. The music's gotten louder, and so has the clinking of beer glasses. He could use some beer right about now. Could use something much stronger, actually. Thinking about Emhyr, which he made the mistake of doing a minute ago and now can't stop doing, is tempting him to drink himself under the table on whatever he can get his hands on. Getting drunk off his ass in front of his colleagues would be a really bad look, and unprofessional as hell, but Regis did imply they're not out tonight as colleagues. They're out as friends. And friends would understand a friend who just went through an ugly breakup wanting to get drunk off his ass. </p>
<p>Part of Geralt that he doesn't want to listen to, but can't stop hearing, is reminding him that there's a decent chance Regis and Dettlaff don't have much professional respect for him anyway. What Emhyr neglected to mention was how many people know Geralt is a charity case, and who they are. Geralt has Editor-in-Chief Tissaia de Vries down on the list, but since he knows nothing about the publishing industry - which Emhyr was happy to remind him of, multiple times - he doesn't know who's involved in the whole book picking thing, and how many of them would have to know the real reason why Tissaia wanted to move forward with the world's worst pitch. He also doesn't know how many people Tissaia would <em>want</em> to tell, figuring the info could be useful to them - for example, the people working closely with Geralt on the creation of the book. Like the editor who's supposed to be mitigating and fixing countless mistakes to make sure the final writing isn't complete trash, and the illustrator who's supposed to be compensating for shortfalls in the book with amazing art. If anybody could benefit from the knowledge that Geralt is a hack job, it'd be the people in charge of making sure his final book doesn't come off as a hack job too. So Geralt has no idea if Dettlaff and Regis know he's a nepotism pity project, whether he even <em>wants</em> to know if they know, and how he'd go about asking if he was feeling self-destructive enough to. </p>
<p>"As I recall, we were supposed to be feeding you," Regis says. Which is nicer than making fun of Geralt. "And I think it's a fair assumption that you'll want a drink of the stronger sort, but correct me if I'm wrong." </p>
<p>"Not wrong. Not wrong at all." Geralt grimaces. He's tempted to let his head smack down onto the table, but it's made of a firm wood that seems like it would hurt. Probably not worse than everything else that's happened in the past - less than twenty-four hours. Instead, he burrows a little deeper into Regis's green scarf. "I'll leave the food and drinks up to the experts. Just need something edible and something that'll take the edge off." </p>
<p>Regis makes the decisions, and Geralt ends up with a steak sandwich and a pint of beer from a local brewery he's never heard of. It's food and alcohol, so he'd be happy with just about anything he was given. But the beer is good, and the sandwich comes with caramelized onions and spicy relish and crisp lettuce that far exceed Geralt's minimum requirement of "edible". Geralt munches his way through the sandwich and resists the urge to chug the pint right off the bat, and is in a somewhat better mood by the time those are gone. Which could be the food, the company, or that he's given a second pint by Dettlaff without comment and not asked to participate in the conversation. That's just as well, because Regis and Dettlaff are talking about art stuff that could easily veer into the territory of the book if they were to pull Geralt into it. Geralt doesn't want to talk or even think about the fucking book, but it'd be awkward to tell his editor and illustrator that he doesn't want to talk or even think about <em>the fucking book</em>, so he nods like he's listening to them and makes his way steadily through the second pint. </p>
<p>By the end of the second pint, Geralt's starting to think this evening is actually a good one. He saw a bunch of gloomy paintings, he held two long-desired hands, he ate a delicious sandwich, and he drank two pints of high quality beer. And he found out Ciri's in love before he meets the girl she's in love with, which he's now concerned he might <em>not</em> have figured out on his own, so he's also found out he's "bad at deciphering signs of romantic interest". Luckily for him, that's not a skill he'll need often. </p>
<p>"Of all times. Dettlaff, I hate to be the bearer of dismal news, but we have a fire to put out." Regis is holding his phone up for Dettlaff to read something on the screen when Geralt snaps his head up, alarmed. He can't figure out why they're so calm about something of theirs being on fire, until he remembers that's a phrase that some people use to describe work emergencies without actual fires. In Geralt's past lines of work, "a fire to put out" meant a metalworking machine had gone up in flames or there was a situation unfolding that was probably arson. "An ill-timed thorn in the proverbial buttocks. A ten participant conference call, led by the only person on the Continent more loquacious than I. Seasons shall come and go, generations shall travel from cradle to grave, civilizations shall rise and fall, and yet on this conference line we shall remain for time immemorial..." </p>
<p>"Geralt, forgive us." Dettlaff's brow is furrowed, and there's a deep concern in his blue eyes as he reaches across the table. Geralt easily laces their fingers together, so easily he can't believe he's doing it. "It is not by choice that we abruptly abandon you. Would that we could avoid this call..." </p>
<p>"Hey. No big deal," Geralt says, and he can't keep from looking down at how well their fingers fit together, and idly wondering if Dettlaff feels like they fit as well as he does. "Don't mind hanging out here for a while, if you want to come back. But if this is a need to head out for the night thing, I get it." </p>
<p>Regis and Dettlaff exchange a look. Then Regis says, "We couldn't possibly ask you to waste your evening awaiting our return from our fire-extinguishing endeavors, as the indeterminate length of time required could be considerable. Though, I admit, we would love to be so selfish as to arrange to spend the remainder of the night with you. However, please don't feel obligated -" </p>
<p>"Well, I'm gonna be sitting here for the length of your call. Nothin' you can do about it," Geralt interrupts, offering them both a smile. "Gonna come back once it's over?" </p>
<p>Regis smiles back, then looks down at his phone again. "If you will still be here, then we wouldn't dream of being anywhere else. Now, my apologies, I'm afraid we must sprint to a quieter location, as this involves - oh, the call has begun, I am being texted with inquiries as to my - we shall return, Geralt!" </p>
<p>Geralt sits and watches as Dettlaff and Regis leap up, shoving their coats back on with a gracelessness he rarely sees from them, and scramble for the door like there's a literal fire outside it. Between the two of them they almost knock multiple people over while trying to tap some things on the screen of Regis's phone and run off to - wherever they're going. They never said. But Geralt watches the pub door swing shut heavily behind the couple and decides to trust that if they said they'll come back to him, they'll come back to him. </p>
<p>The pub has put hockey on the TVs, a Kaedwen Knights game, and there's one situated conveniently in Geralt's line of sight. He's got nothing else to do, and plenty of thoughts he could end up thinking, so he decides to watch the hockey and see what Ciri's so excited about these days. Besides Cerys, that is. The TV's too far for him to see the puck or read any of the names on the players' silver and black uniforms, but he can get the basic idea of what's happening in the game. Which is a bunch of big men on skates going very fast, carrying long sticks and whacking into each other, while trying to reach a net guarded by a guy who's dressed up like a golem. Ciri's told him that women's hockey like the Kaedwen Queens and Skellige Sirens play is a lot less aggressive and more strategic, without all the whacking into each other, so she likes it better. Geralt's relieved about that, because if Ciri ever decides she wants to play hockey, he'd have a heart attack if it was <em>this</em> version. It's exciting, though, and he can see the appeal. One of the Knights scores after only a couple seconds, a neat - goal? that goes past the - goalie? keeper? netminder? into the upper left corner of the - net? tent? also goal? Maybe he can try to impress Ciri by making a comment about this goal. Or possibly getting the terminology wrong and giving her something to laugh at with Cerys. Either works. </p>
<p>Geralt wonders if Emhyr knows about Cerys, if Ciri talks to him about her relationships or her personal life at all. Emhyr's almost definitely paying for Ciri and Cerys's hockey tickets, so maybe he knows. Ciri's maybe-girlfriend would be the kind of thing the two of them could gossip about together, if they hadn't gone through an implosion that might leave them trying to get away with never talking to each other again. Geralt hasn't come up with a solid plan for how he and Emhyr will communicate with each other if they need to pass along a message or have a conversation that can't go through Ciri, but he knows Emhyr well enough to guess they'll probably be using Emhyr's assistant as their go-between. That's fine with Geralt. And just like that, he's gone from hockey to Emhyr. Every train of thought he has keeps leading to Emhyr. </p>
<p>"Can I get anything else for you or your friends?" The voice suddenly beside Geralt has him snapping his head up. It's one of the bartenders he saw chatting with customers at the bar earlier "Another pint, maybe?" </p>
<p>And Geralt decides, fuck it. It's a bad idea, but his voice of reason is off being reasonable somewhere else. His set of watchful eyes is away looking at something else. So without Regis to question or chide him, or Dettlaff to stare into his soul, Geralt gives in. He gives the bartender an unpleasant attempt at a smile and says, "Round of three, and we'll say two are for my friends. Actually - make it four, 'cause my baby daddy is the worst man I've ever met and I'm in love with him anyway. Cheers." </p>
<p>Dettlaff and Regis are gone for a long time. Geralt doesn't worry, since they promised they'd come back and he trusts them. By the end of his third pint of the night, Geralt's gotten so invested in the hockey game that he still doesn't know what anything is called but he thinks Ciri might not be the biggest Kaedwen Knights fan in their house anymore. Before his fourth pint, Geralt plays darts, which is maybe not the best idea at this stage of the evening but he does well enough to win another free pint that he gives away to a woman in a Knights sweater. At some point during his fifth pint, Geralt has an insightful conversation with himself in the bathroom mirror that leaves him considering cutting his hair short and sneaking a bunch of angry raccoons into Emhyr's house. The start of the sixth pint brings a stop to Geralt's wandering, diminished concentration on his hockey watching, and a renewed focus on his drinking. </p>
<p>By the time Dettlaff and Regis are standing in front of Geralt again, appearing out of nowhere like they'd come in as wisps of mist and then popped up in his sightline fully formed, Geralt has just finished that sixth pint. The alcohol has hit him hard. Walloped him, more like. Geralt's not a lightweight by any means, and six pints in a night wouldn't normally be enough to fuck him up like this, but he's well and truly fucked up. Might have something to do with how quickly he drank those pints, after eating nothing but one sandwich for over twenty-four hours, but Geralt's not an alcohol detective or - whoever figures those things out. The couple's faces are harried and reddened from the cold, and they look stressed, but Geralt can't imagine what they could be so stressed about when they're such great people. A lazy smile crawls across his face, because he's happy to see them but he's also kind of woozy. The outline of Dettlaff's coat looks strange, like a sideways mountain range, but the outlines of everything look strange right now. They aren't as clear as they were when Regis and Dettlaff left. Most of them are multiplied or moving. Geralt missed Regis and Dettlaff while they were gone, though he didn't realize it until now. They might not have missed him, though. They probably won't be happy that he's very drunk. Maybe they won't notice he's very drunk. </p>
<p>"Oh, my," Regis says. "You are very drunk."</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>"Yup," Geralt admits, because there's no use in pretending he doesn't know where all the empty pint glasses came from if he's not going to get away with it. Regis is leaning in now, looking closer at Geralt, and he'd laugh about being inspected like a bug under a magnifying glass if Regis wasn't so - handsome. Damn. And close enough to kiss, though Geralt doesn't know why he noticed that. But Regis is right. He's very drunk. So, "Mhm." </p>
<p>"Well, I suppose it's a breakup tradition," Regis says in a voice that sounds like a sigh. He understands. Geralt knew his friend would understand. His Regis would understand, because Regis is so understanding, and so amazing. He really, really likes Regis. He likes Dettlaff that much too. Regis rests a hand on Geralt's shoulder, and it feels so nice. It always feels nice when Regis touches him. Probably because of how much Geralt likes him. Geralt drifts sideways until he's leaning his head against Regis's arm, and for the first time in twenty four fucking hours, he's genuinely happy. Regis pats his head, and he feels like a dog being rewarded and smiles. "Dear, you are rather far gone. Let's get some more water and food in you." </p>
<p>"Nope," Geralt says. That'd be a very bad idea. Maybe it's how much he drank, or how fast he drank it, or both, but his stomach is feeling very unsteady. Regis bringing that up makes it feel unsteadier, and, well, fuck, Geralt feels kind of sick now. He also feels sleepy, and that wooziness from earlier is gradually morphing into a more aggressive kind of dizziness. He closes his eyes, leans harder on Regis's arm, and hopes Regis will pat him on the head again. But he won't, because Geralt doesn't deserve to be rewarded. He forgot to ask Regis and Dettlaff if they aren't happy with him. They probably aren't, because Geralt is - what's the nice word for pain-in-the-ass - an inconvenience. Always a fucking inconvenience. But now a drunk inconvenience. </p>
<p>"Our apartment is a few streets away." Dettlaff's voice is very close to Geralt's ear now, and Geralt shivers a little at how low it is before wondering how it got there. He feels a big hand on his back, and he thinks it's Dettlaff's, so he leans into it. It feels nice when Dettlaff touches him too, because Geralt really, really likes him. As much as he likes Regis. "You should stay with us tonight." </p>
<p>That would be a big problem. Even Geralt's drunk brain knows it would be a problem, because - well, he can't remember why, just knows something will be very difficult for him if he stays over at Dettlaff and Regis's apartment. But then again, Geralt's drunk, and he can't trust his brain about what is or isn't a problem. Geralt trusted his brain when it said that getting drunk wouldn't be a problem, and look how that turned out. So if Geralt can't trust his brain to tell him what's a problem, and he can't remember what would be difficult for him or why, then - maybe there's not really a problem. He <em>can</em> remember that drunk people shouldn't drive, and that he lives in the middle of nowhere which is too far for Dettlaff and Regis to drop him off at this time of night, both of which are definitely problems. So staying with Dettlaff and Regis tonight actually seems like the opposite of a problem. </p>
<p>"Might's'well," Geralt agrees. And <em>now</em> Regis pats him on the head again. If he's being rewarded, that means he was right. Staying with them isn't problem. That's good. That means he can ignore the part of him that still feels like it's a problem, because he's drunk, so what does he know. Regis has always been ten times smarter than him sober, and is probably a hundred times smarter than him drunk.</p>
<p>The trip to Dettlaff and Regis's apartment is blurry for Geralt. Both because his mind is blurry, and because his vision is blurry. He knows most of it is some variation on the two of them jointly hauling him down the street, and once or twice he gets stuttered to a stop because he's trying to keep hauling himself but there's a car. At one point, there's an angry pigeon. It's kind of funny, because Geralt got his wish to be held between the couple again, but also unfunny because it's embarrassing. Not to Geralt, because he won't feel the embarrassment until the blurring in his head clears, but to Dettlaff and Regis. Probably. They don't have faces when he occasionally catches sight of their strangely structured triangle in shiny building windows. Geralt's knee doesn't hurt because of the alcohol, and he doesn't feel cold because of Regis's green plaid scarf - and the alcohol. Nothing actually seems <em>bad</em>. Geralt's an oblivious drunk stumbling down the increasingly posh streets of North Daevon while draped over two tall and attractive men, and for now, that's not too bad of a thing to be. </p>
<p>For now. </p>
<p>The blur gets more stretched out and distinct on the sofa. The parade of colors and lights and sometimes windows or cars or pigeons gives way to the pinging of an elevator door and then tweed, dark grey tweed, under Geralt's hands. His body is stationary, different parts of it propped up in different ways: his right leg on a footstool, his shoulder on a chest, his head on a shoulder, and his hands on rough scratchy dark grey tweed. His knee is hurting a bit now, but the scarf's keeping him warm, and he's still drunk. The apartment feels big around him, but his sense of space is all off. There is a big window across a wall, fuzzy shapes in the distance, and a lot of plants. The plants make Geralt feel comfortable, and so does the arm around him. There are footsteps going back and forth behind him, somewhere out of his perception, but the arm is solid and tangible. Geralt smells complicated cologne and a little bit of smoke, sees black cloth, and knows Dettlaff. </p>
<p>"Us'lly use a pickup line to get men to take me home," Geralt mumbles, settling in more comfortably against those wonderful firm contours of Dettlaff's body. Dettlaff's chest rises and falls quickly with a low rumbling noise, and Geralt thinks Dettlaff might've just <em>laughed</em>. Getting a laugh out of Dettlaff, who rarely cracks the tiniest smile, might be one of the biggest accomplishments of Geralt's life. One of the biggest he's gotten on his own. Unlike his book. Which he didn't get on his own. Because it was Emhyr. Fuck. Here he is, back at Emhyr again. Things aren't feeling so good anymore. "Last man who took me home - y'won't guess what he did. Had to do with a book." </p>
<p>Regis's hand nudges Geralt under the chin, and Geralt looks up at him with bleary yellow eyes. "There you are, dear. Drink this for me." Regis puts a glass of water to Geralt's lips and tilts it, and Geralt tries to drink it, but ends up getting water down his beard and the front of his hoodie and scarf. It's not his best moment. None of this is. Nothing in the past - twenty four hours, more by now - has been his best moment. They have better luck with the second glass of water, because Regis brought a second glass. Regis is smart. He's also very kind. Geralt doesn't deserve him. Maybe because Regis, along with Dettlaff, is part of a package involving another thing Geralt doesn't deserve. </p>
<p>"Maybe you know this one, Regis," Geralt says, with an ugly, twisted smile that feels too familiar on his face. It's been there too much over the past twenty four hours. "Riddle for you. A nobody with nothing sends a shitty cryptid idea email to the wrong person. How's he get a book deal?"</p>
<p>"What?" Regis frowns, his forehead scrunching up in concern like he genuinely doesn't know what Geralt is talking about. Maybe he doesn't know, because Geralt is drunk and isn't making sense. Maybe he doesn't know, because nobody told him about the secret meeting. Maybe he does know, and he's playing dumb because he's too nice to tell Geralt he knows he's a fraud. Maybe he doesn't know, but it'll make complete sense when Geralt tells him. "I'm sorry, Geralt, I'm afraid I'm not following." </p>
<p>Geralt loves blowing things up around himself. Loves turning things against himself. He's been on a spree lately, of disappointing or losing the people he cares about. He's tired of secrets, of being kept in the dark, of not knowing how much of his book or his life is <em>real</em>. Not knowing whether everyone else knows things he doesn't. And Geralt cares about Dettlaff and Regis. Really, really cares about them. Cares about them too fucking much to have any lies between the three of them. If Dettlaff and Regis already know the truth behind Geralt's book deal, then they should know Geralt knows too so they can all be on the same page. If they don't know, then they deserve to know. Geralt is their author, they're his editor and illustrator, and the three of them are a team. So Geralt owes Regis and Dettlaff the truth. They deserve to know why they got stuck working with someone as incompetent, clueless, and fucking useless as Geralt. </p>
<p>So Geralt says, "Got a new story. Nonfiction. Mystery and horror. Starts - maybe ten, eleven months ago, don't know where on the Continent. Characters are: Emhyr var Emreis, rich big-fuckin'-deal strategy consultant asshole. Tissaia de Vries, editor-in-chief of Fairy Light Press. Geralt Bellegarde, dad, broke-ass metalworker, would-be author with nothing. Part 1 of the story goes like this: Emhyr var Emreis goes to Tissaia de Vries, tells her the piece-of-ass he's been pounding for a few years sent her publishing house a real shitty email - a book pitch they threw in the bin. Emhyr does some "various machinations", swings his big rich dick around, gets Tissaia to take his sugar baby's trash out of the bin. It's called <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>. It gets an editor and an illustrator, and they put everything they've got into fixing the piece of trash. That's Part 1. Part 2 starts last night, in a mansion a little bit west of Daevon. What happens is, Emhyr var Emreis and Geralt Bellegarde fuck real good and then start fighting. Emhyr tells Geralt Part 1 of the story. They break up. Geralt finds out he's a fuckin' fraud who can't write for shit, and he's spent the last ten months living a lie where he and his shitty fuckin' book got so much they didn't deserve while he thought maybe he'd actually made something of himself. And that's it. That's the story. What d'you think?" </p>
<p>"I think it doesn't sound like fully accurate nonfiction," Regis says. He kneels down on the floor in front of Geralt, then takes Geralt's hand and tries to look into his eyes. Geralt turns away and presses his cheek into Dettlaff's chest, because he can't meet Regis's gaze. Even drunk like this, he's too ashamed. "I'm certain the events at the beginning of Part 1 didn't unfold exactly as recounted by Emhyr var Emreis, who seems to have an ulterior motive while retelling them in Part 2. A lot of important events that may add further context or explanation seem to have been skipped over during Part 1. And Geralt Bellegarde's conclusion at the end of Part 2, that he's an undeserving fraud who can't write, is narration from the perspective of an unreliable narrator rather than part of a factual summary." </p>
<p>Geralt closes his eyes, and wishes he was drunker. "Heard this one before?" </p>
<p>"Not all of it. Not the parts pertaining to the interactions between Emhyr and Tissaia de Vries," Regis says, lacing his fingers with Geralt's. Dettlaff holds him a little tighter. "But, as it so happens, the briefly mentioned editor is a side character. His name is Dr. Emiel Regis Rollehec Terzieff-Godefroy - perhaps an unecessarily long and whimsical name for a character, but I strive for the complete and accurate truth - and not only was he present during the editing process of <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>, he was present for some of those events that were skipped over during Part 1. I suggest this story could benefit from the addition of his point of view - which, I should note, would include a very different conclusion from Geralt's at the end of Part 2."</p>
<p>"Tough shit that Regis is an unreliable narrator too," Geralt says, and lets out a raspy laugh. "We all are. Every single person's an unreliable narrator. This story's no different. Wouldn't matter, anyway. Regis could decide <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> was the best book he'd ever read, and that wouldn't make Geralt wrong. Regis could decide every word on the pages was gold, and it wouldn't make a single fuckin' difference. It wouldn't make Geralt less of a fraud. A talentless hack who doesn't deserve shit. A rescued piece of trash." </p>
<p>"Geralt. Look at me." Regis's voice is firm. He sounds like the professor he used to be. Geralt's never been ordered to do anything by Regis before, and he's surprised enough that he does turn his head. Regis's soft black eyes are filled with a painful sympathy, and something heavily tinged with sorrow. He cups Geralt's left cheek in his palm and says, much more gently, "This is part of why you were upset, wasn't it? It wasn't just your breakup." </p>
<p>Geralt drops his gaze. "Caught me." </p>
<p>Regis begins to rub Geralt's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, and it's comforting. Regis is good at comforting Geralt. Good thing, because Geralt always seems to need it around him. Shame Geralt's so pathetic, but at least it gets him attention from Regis. Regis's thumb brushes over Geralt's scar, and then suddenly it stops and pulls back and hesitates over his face. Geralt looks at Regis sadly, because he should've known. Regis has never brought up the long and jagged facial scar that splits the left side of his forehead and the cheek below it, has never stared at it or asked any questions about it or commented on it, but Regis is polite. Very polite. Of course he wouldn't tell Geralt if he thinks the scar is ugly, or if he thinks Geralt is ugly. But Regis's expression doesn't show any of those things. In fact, it's apologetic, like he feels like he's done something he's not supposed to do. Overstepped some boundary he shouldn't cross. And that should be true, because touching Geralt's scar <em>is</em> a boundary. Up until now, Ciri and Emhyr were the only people Geralt allowed to touch it. He used to let Yennefer and doctors touch it, but that was it. </p>
<p>But Regis has become an exception to so many things, in so many ways. Dettlaff has too. And, as a couple, they've gotten completely past his defenses. Geralt is sitting on their living room sofa in the middle of the night, drunk off his ass, curled up in Dettlaff's arms with Regis petting his face as he tells them about how he got his heart broken by the man he fell in love with and the way that man tried to give him the life he wanted. So Geralt reaches up and presses Regis's thumb back onto his cheek, right over the scar. And he mumbles, "S'okay. You can touch it." </p>
<p>For a while, Regis strokes Geralt's cheekbone in silence. He doesn't avoid the scar, and Geralt doesn't mind at all. Geralt's starting to get sleepy again, and with Dettlaff holding him and Regis caressing his face, he feels comfortable and safe. He's still got plenty of alcohol swirling his head up, and everything's so warm that gravity grows stronger right over his eyelids and he starts to slip into the beginnings of a drunk doze. When Geralt's at risk of going completely under, the tight black shirt over Dettlaff's firm chest and the grey tweed fabric under his hands feeling like pretty good bedding, Regis lightly scratches behind Geralt's ear. And, oh, that's nice. "As loathe as I am to disturb you, there is a better place for you to sleep and I'd like to transport you to it. Everything else, we can discuss tomorrow. But until then, I promise you that your work is excellent and you should not for a second believe that you and your book do not deserve everything you have. Alright?" </p>
<p>"Mhh," Geralt replies. He's not convinced, both that he and his book aren't trash and that there's a better place for him to sleep, but he's too tired to fight either of those points. He couldn't win an argument with Regis anyway, not even if the editor was the one who'd had six pints and Geralt was the one who was sober. "'f you say so."</p>
<p>Getting up from the sofa doesn't go well, which is a flattering way of saying Geralt stumbles as soon as he gets his feet under him and yanks on Dettlaff's arm so hard he nearly takes them both down. Dettlaff steadies Geralt with both hands, but before Geralt's spinning head can get its bearings, he's being scooped up. His instinct is to lash out against whatever's seized him, but luckily the alcohol slows his reflexes down enough that he realizes it's Dettlaff before he starts swinging his fists around. Once he processes Dettlaff's strong arms and hands under the crooks of his knees and bracing his back, Geralt goes from threat mode to limp and docile mode very quickly. He was right when he guessed on that night back in December that Dettlaff would be able to pick him up, and he was right when he guessed that he'd like it. And that he'd feel safe. Geralt feels as safe in Dettlaff's arms as he does - did - in Emhyr's, and curls against him happily. </p>
<p>"Is this alright?" Dettlaff asks, and Geralt nods with a <em>mhm</em> noise that comes out sounding like a sigh. It might be a little dangerous, with the way his head is unsteady and his stomach could get unsteady again at any moment, but despite all that it's more than alright. The only thing it's missing is a kiss. But Geralt and Dettlaff don't kiss, so Geralt doesn't know why he felt like they should. It must be an association thing, like those dogs that were trained to salivate at the sound of a bell, since Emhyr's been the only person who's picked him up like this and Emhyr usually kisses him soon after. Or maybe that's not the only reason, and Geralt's mind is digging up feelings it shouldn't because he's so drunk he has to be carried through a living room and he's not even asking where they're going. He's lolling in Dettlaff's arms like a rag doll, and that should have him embarrassed, but instead he's hoping it takes a long time to reach wherever their destination is.</p>
<p>The destination turns out to be a bedroom, and they get there a lot sooner than Geralt wants them to. Geralt guesses it's a guest bedroom because it doesn't look like anyone lives in it, and because Dettlaff probably wouldn't take him to the couple's bedroom. He wouldn't mind being taken to their bedroom, though. Wouldn't mind being taken to their bed. Wouldn't mind if they were in it with him. And, fuck, Geralt needs to shut his drunk brain up before it thinks something it can't take back - but it already has, because it thought about kissing Regis at the pub and kissing Dettlaff in the living room. His sober brain was thinking about wanting to be held by them months ago. And his sober brain was thinking about wanting to be part of their bond within weeks of meeting them. It's way too late to deny that all these thoughts qualify as <em>things Geralt can't take back</em>. Geralt is gone. Too far gone, in too many ways. </p>
<p>Dettlaff sets Geralt down on the bed, lowering him slowly and carefully and only pulling his arms away once Geralt's seated in a stable position. Geralt feels woozy and suddenly helpless and wants to cling onto Dettlaff like a leech, but it's too late, because he's no longer there. Regis is, though, which makes him less lonely. Regis is moving around the room, putting things down with a steady stream of commentary that Geralt doesn't catch. But, like always, he enjoys the sound of Regis's voice. He could listen to Regis talk until sunrise. Dettlaff returns to place a stack of black fabric on the bed beside Geralt, and since Geralt's fuzzy vision isn't helping him figure out what it is, he clumsily rubs his hand on it to feel it out. </p>
<p>"Pajamas," Dettlaff says. "Mine. They should fit you." </p>
<p>"If you don't mind, we'll stay while you change," Regis says, before Geralt can process that Dettlaff wants him to wear his clothes, and then he's removing Geralt's hoodie and the green plaid scarf. Geralt doesn't want to part with the scarf, but it had to happen sooner or later. He wishes it was later, but he can't complain about Regis undressing him. Which is, fuck, not a thought he should be having, but if Regis wanted to undress him further, he'd - definitely not complain, at all. "We'll turn away to give you privacy, of course, but I think it's best to ensure you have someone to fish you out should you become entangled in clothing or strangled by it." </p>
<p>"Prob'ly gonna happen," Geralt admits. His drunk brain, because it's determined to make sure it doesn't leave a single inappropriate stone unturned, points out that it wouldn't mind if they didn't turn away. He's in good shape, he wouldn't have a problem with them seeing - no, that's the worst one yet, and, shit, he's really lucky that Regis and Dettlaff both walk across the room and turn around to face the wall before that brain can spit anything out of his mouth. Geralt doesn't know exactly how he gets out of his clothes and into the pajamas, but after a lot of struggling and wobbling his own dirty clothes are in a pile on the floor and Dettlaff's clean ones are covering his body. The black pajamas aren't as fancy as the ones Emhyr gets him, not perfectly-tailored silk with his lover's initials monogrammed on them, but they're soft and loose-fitting and Dettlaff's and that makes Geralt like them just as much. Geralt wriggles inside the fabric to feel it more closely on his skin, then says, "Done." </p>
<p>The expression in Dettlaff's intense blue eyes when he looks Geralt over is strangely familiar, but he can't figure out why. Probably because Dettlaff's always closely studying him, and he's gotten used to it. Regis smiles fondly at him, and it makes Geralt duck his head and stare at his lap when Regis says, "Geralt, my dear, your shirt is - well, never mind that, you've achieved the basic objective. I must say, you look precious in Dettlaff's clothing." </p>
<p>"Not the smoothest way I've gotten in a guy's pants," Geralt says, before he realizes he's about to say it. Dettlaff gives him another one of those quick and rare laughs, and any regret Geralt might've felt vanishes before it can kick in. And, for some reason, that's when Geralt puts together why the look in Dettlaff's eyes was so familiar: it's the one Emhyr gets when Geralt wears something of his. The one that says, <em>mine</em>. </p>
<p>"Bedtime for you, dearest. You've had quite a night - or, nights, from the sound of it. Sleep will do you good." Regis is sitting on the bed beside Geralt then, guiding him down to the mattress until he's lying safely on his side. With his head resting on the pillow unmoving, and his eyes closed to block out distracting stimuli, Geralt gets hit full force with the exhaustion and vertigo that were waiting for the right chance to crash over him. Regis carefully wiggles the sheets and covers out from under Geralt's prone body and pulls them up over it, tucking them under him a little bit so that he feels secure and warm but not trapped. Geralt doesn't realize the pillow isn't in the most comfortable position until Regis adjusts it so it's supporting his neck just right, and he sighs. "There. Anything else we can do for you?" </p>
<p>"M'sorry," Geralt mumbles into the pillow, so he doesn't say <em>stay with me</em>. </p>
<p>"Whatever for?" Regis is stroking Geralt's hair out of his face, gathering it up behind his head and tucking it behind his ear, since his hair tie went - he doesn't know. Probably wherever his dignity went. </p>
<p>Geralt sighs. "This." </p>
<p>"All of us present less than our best face in times of heartbreak. Worry not." Regis gives the top of Geralt's head this long lingering touch that has Geralt getting closer and closer to saying <em>stay with me</em> with every second Regis's hand rests there, and Regis pulls his hand away about one second before Geralt slurs it out. That's probably a good thing, because Regis wouldn't want to stay with him, but - maybe there's the slightest chance he would, or Dettlaff would, and Geralt won't know because he was just barely sober enough to hold out for one more second. But that's stupid, pathetic and stupid wishful thinking, because Regis doesn't like Geralt as much as Geralt likes Regis and Dettlaff doesn't like Geralt as much as Geralt likes Dettlaff so there's no reason they'd stay, either of them. Not because Geralt is drunk and dizzy and he misses Emhyr and he wants somebody to stay with him but he'd want it to be Dettlaff or Regis more than anybody else. </p>
<p>"Wait." Geralt's hand drags itself up and starts grabbing around in the air before he can figure out why, and then his situational awareness catches up with his instinct. Regis got up, the bed dipping and then rising beside him as Regis's warmth faded, and Geralt needs to tell him something. Not <em>stay with me</em> but - right, the nightmares. Dettlaff and Regis need to know about the nightmares. Geralt doesn't want them to know, doesn't want anyone but Emhyr and maybe Ciri to know, but they might find out anyway. This bedroom is unfamiliar and his mind is all messed up for so many reasons and Geralt doesn't know how that might affect his nightmares. He could cry out or knock something over or jump out of bed and start running from the unknown threat in the unknown place. That'd be embarrassing, but it'd be way more embarrassing if it happened without Dettlaff and Regis knowing why Geralt is yelling or sending a lamp flying or dashing around the apartment or bumping into walls while trying to find a door. Those are all things he's done in the past, when the nightmares were at their worst. Maybe none of that will happen, and Geralt will be telling them this for no reason. But it'll be better for all of them if they're prepared. </p>
<p>"Yes, dear one?" The voice is Regis's, but the hand that holds Geralt's searching one is  bigger and firmer. Dettlaff's. Regis's hand touches the middle of Geralt's back through the covers. </p>
<p>Geralt mumbles, half muffled into the pillow like he's still not sure if he wants them to hear, "I have nightmares. Might... make noise. Break something. Don't know. Sorry." </p>
<p>"That's quite alright, Geralt. Nightmares are not an uncommon phenomenon. Dettlaff and I are both experienced at providing aid and comfort during and after such experiences. Should you desire it, and should we not independently become aware of your need for it, please seek us out." Regis strokes Geralt's back, and Dettlaff clasps another hand around his. "How would you like us to help you? Should we wake you, or soothe you, or walk you through any preferred grounding exercises?" </p>
<p>"Mh..." Geralt doesn't know. He definitely won't want to exercise, and he'll be too shaky to do push-ups or lift weights or something for a long time afterwards. He hasn't thought about how he'd want anyone who isn't Emhyr to help him with the nightmares, because he figured no one else would find out, and that even if someone found out they wouldn't want to help him. They'd probably just hope he didn't become a nuisance. Geralt figured that without Emhyr he'd do what he does the rest of the time, which is wake up alone in the dark and tremble and gasp for breath until he knows where he is and what's happening and that no nameless horror is going to hurt him or someone he loves in some unspecified way. But what Emhyr does - did - helps. So Geralt says, "Dunno. You can ignore me. Don't wake me up, might lash out and hurt you. Don't ask me questions. Guess you could... tell me where I am. Who you are. And nothing scary is here." </p>
<p>"You are safe with us," Dettlaff's voice says, getting further and further away even as his and Regis's hands stay close and secure on Geralt's limp and helpless body. "You will always be safe with us." </p>
<p>Geralt slips away after that, knocked off his ass by the alcohol and calmed by Dettlaff's and Regis's presences. Someone else is talking, but he doesn't know what they're saying. Doesn't matter anyway, since they're almost gone. Whatever they're saying, it's okay. Geralt is safe. That's all he needed to know, to let go in an unfamiliar place with no idea what's going to happen once he's asleep and no idea what's going to happen once he wakes up. He trusts Dettlaff and Regis. Trusts their promises. Trusts they'll keep him safe. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Geralt wakes up to a mop of frizzy white hair in his face. It's in his mouth, it's over his eyes, and it really needs to be washed. He spits out the strands that have gotten between his open lips and scrunches up his nose, planning to tell the owner of the hair to get the hell off him, but - </p>
<p>- it's him. Geralt is the hair.</p>
<p>Also, Geralt is dying. </p>
<p>Everything is a dull background buzz for a while, an intense but unplaceable misery filling every part of Geralt's body as he drifts somewhere dim that sounds like distant wind and birds. Then, gradually, a pillow and mattress take shape under Geralt's throbbing head and pitifully sprawled limbs. Geralt groans and starts to roll onto his front to bury his face in the pillow, because that'll either muffle his noises of agony or smother him - he'll take either - but then stops when that worsens the way every one of his muscles aches and makes him nauseous. He cracks an eye open, trying to figure out where the hell he is and why the hell he feels like this, and sees a bin on the floor nearby. Convenient, considering the way his forehead is beaded up with cold sweat and his stomach is dipping and rolling the same way the mattress is - no, nothing's moving. Geralt's just dying. </p>
<p>As Geralt lays there, wincing at the pounding in his brain tissue and contemplating the bin, a picture starts to form of the room around him. There's a window with a dark curtain drawn over it, but from the light seeping around the edges and the bird noises  on the other side of it he can guess it's morning. Not much else to see there, so Geralt pries his other eye open and struggles to flop onto his back like a turtle that's about to get itself into a position it can't get out of. From there, he can see a door on the left side of the light grey wall he's now facing. There's two pieces of art hung in the middle of the wall, different parts of a painting of a beach dotted with clusters of seagulls. The sea is frothy and overshadowed by heavy dark clouds, and the ominous landscape in that style reminds him of some paintings he saw at -</p>
<p>- fuck. The art gallery: Orianna's gloomy nature pieces and chattering people in trendy clothes near a bench where Geralt is telling Regis about his breakup, and then Regis is putting a green plaid scarf around Geralt's neck while sexy art show Dettlaff holds his hand. The pub: sports memorabilia and jaunty music and laughter surrounding a table where Geralt is eating a steak sandwich while Regis and Dettlaff talk, and then hockey is on the TV and Geralt is throwing darts and he keeps drinking alone, and then Geralt is leaning on Regis's arm drunk off his ass with Dettlaff's voice by his ear saying something about spending the night at their apartment. The North Daevon streets: windows and cars and a pigeon blurring by Geralt draped over Dettlaff and Regis, and then a light paired with a chime preceding Geralt stumbling through two different doors. The grey tweed sofa: Geralt laying limp against Dettlaff's chest in the middle of the couple's living room and saying something that makes Dettlaff laugh, and then Regis touching Geralt's face while he babbles out a story. Darkness: nothing. </p>
<p>At least, Geralt <em>hopes</em> there's nothing else. Because, fuck. What he remembers is bad enough, and that's without knowing what story he babbled out, or if he threw up on someone's shoes while staggering down the street, or if he tried to hit on any strangers at the pub. Or, even worse, tried to hit on any friends at the apartment. Geralt groans again, looks at the frothy sea, and imagines drowning himself in it. The good news is, the alcohol must've put Geralt too deep under to remember any nightmares. The bad news is, he still remembers horrible things, and those ones actually <em>happened</em>. Geralt thought he knew he was too old to drink like this, both because he loses his inhibitions and his body can't take it the day after, but he went and got sloppy drunk like Ciri always tells him not to do before they go to a family dinner with - </p>
<p>- Emhyr. Geralt was drinking because of Emhyr. And his book. And what Emhyr did about his book. Which is worse than all last night's embarrassments combined. </p>
<p>Geralt twists weakly, trying to get out of his turtle position. With a little more wriggling, he manages to drag himself up into a hunched over position that's almost sitting. His hair is back in his face, and it's tempting to swat it away, but his head hurts so bad he doesn't want to touch anything on or near it. From this vantage point, he can see he's managed to uproot the crisp white sheets and covers and kick the nice clean bedding onto the floor. It feels like an omen. His right knee feels sore and overtaxed, which he's assuming is from those several streets of uncoordinated frolicking. Geralt presses a hand to his churning stomach, grimacing, and feels a backwards shirt that's definitely not his; a quick inspection of its color and size, along with the also-not-his pants he's wearing, leads Geralt to conclude that he's gotten alcohol-scented sweat all over a pair of Dettlaff's pajamas. So that's great. </p>
<p>There's a little table with a lamp on the other side of the bed, and it's been set with a glass of water and a few pills on a napkin. Geralt gingerly sips the water - which tastes odd, but like it probably has added electrolytes or nutrients - and takes the pills without trying to determine what they are. It was probably Regis that put them there, and if there's any chance they'll do something about the damn headache and the nausea and the way his whole body hurts, then he's fine with spinning that roulette wheel. Geralt looks at the little painted seagulls and waits for the pills to kick in, for better or worse, to keep from feeling the crushing weight of the embarrassment. As it turns out, the pills work for the better. And as it also turns out, staring at paint blobs isn't enough to keep him from feeling absolutely fucking humiliated. </p>
<p>Geralt could die in this room, probably. Or he could go out the window. Any method of departure seems like a better option than exiting through the bedroom door and potentially facing Dettlaff and Regis again. Maybe they won't be home. </p>
<p>"I'm home!" Regis calls, from somewhere near the bedroom door, as the apartment's front door opens and then shuts heavily. </p>
<p>"Welcome home," Dettlaff calls back, from somewhere a little further away. </p>
<p>Fuck. </p>
<p>Geralt agonizes about how and when to make his escape for a while longer, until his body makes him aware that he should go where the bathroom is. And, unfortunately, that's probably in the same direction Regis and Dettlaff are. Geralt's too old to drink like this, but that also means he's too old to hide from people he's embarrassed himself in front of. So Geralt oozes off the bed like a slug slipping off a leaf, straightens up Dettlaff's pajamas, combs his messy hair out with his fingers so that the long strands are covering as much of his face as he can cover without making it obvious he's trying to hide behind his hair, and then creaks open the door and slinks out of the bedroom in shame. </p>
<p>Immediately, Geralt is smacked in the helpless cat eyes and aching head by a blaze of sunlight. His hands fly up to cover his eyes as they go momentarily blind, the light stabbing everywhere it can reach inside his tender brain. He didn't consider <em>this</em> part of his departure from the bedroom, but he really should've. The chirping birds and whistling wind are louder out here, and the air smells like citrus fruit and frying meat. The whole experience is an aggressive assault on every sense that Geralt doesn't want assaulted, and he has to resist the urge to curl up on the floor and inch his scrunched up body along it until he's back in the safety of the dim and quiet and nothing-scented bedroom. </p>
<p>"I suppose I don't need to ask how you're feeling, then." Regis's voice is close. Very close. Geralt shakes his head the tiniest bit, not removing his hands from his eyes. "Poor dear thing. Well, it's to be expected. You drank an impressive quantity last night. It might have been better split across three of us." </p>
<p>Maybe Geralt can move across the Continent and change his name. He's heard Toussaint is lovely at this time of year, and Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde is too long and ridiculous for him anyway. </p>
<p>"A shower will do you some good," Regis says. Geralt's not sure if Regis is suggesting a way to improve his hangover, telling him he smells like alcohol and sweat, or both. Probably both. "A shower, some tea, some breakfast, and we'll have you fixed right up. Assuming you already found and consumed the electrolyte and nutrient infused water and the medicine, of course - those would be the place to start. Follow me at your pace, and I'll show you the bathroom." </p>
<p>Geralt peels his left hand away from his left eye, opening it very slowly. Then he peels his right hand away from his right eye, opening it just a little bit quicker. The light is awful, but now more bearable. When he looks up from the wood floor beneath his bare feet, because apparently at an unknowable point he ended up barefoot, Regis is still in front of him. He offers Geralt a smile, and Geralt wants to attempt to return it, but the painkillers weren't magic and his face still hurts. Regis doesn't require any kind of response from Geralt, thankfully. And he doesn't seem to be judging Geralt too harshly, either. So emerging from the guest bedroom might not've been the worst move Geralt could've made. Regis turns and starts to walk through the apartment, and Geralt shuffles along after him. </p>
<p>The apartment is easier for Geralt to see now. It's big and spacious, full of natural light. The common areas are open plan, with high ceilings and several doors to other rooms. It has Geralt curious about how they afford such a nice piece of real estate in North Daevon, but it would be rude to ask. Regis leads Geralt past the living room area off to the right, including the grey tweed sofa that Geralt winces at seeing. The big window paining his eyes looks across at some other quiet residential buildings and the old North Daevon clock tower. The dining area they pass next is smaller, a table and some chairs off a kitchen so clean and tidy that Geralt thinks it could go in a magazine. There are houseplants and nice art all over the apartment, and the plants seem very happy among the drawings and paintings and sculptural pieces. Some look like Dettlaff's work, and some look like they're by other artists - maybe ones from the Gharasham Collective that Regis mentioned. </p>
<p>"Good morning, Geralt," Dettlaff says from the kitchen. That's the source of the frying meat and citrus fruit that Geralt doesn't want to smell any more than he has to, at least until his nausea subsides further, and foggily remembering how he practically draped himself over Dettlaff makes him reconsider his stance on being too old to hide from people. So Geralt gives Dettlaff a quick nod without meeting his eyes or saying anything, and keeps shuffling after Regis to the other end of the apartment. </p>
<p>"Dettlaff's studio," Regis says, indicating an open door as they pass. Geralt peers in at what's visible from the doorway and sees the table by the window that Regis mentioned watching Dettlaff draw at, along with a partially finished landscape painting on an easel that's standing next to a smaller table covered in various art supplies and a few blocks of dark wood. "My office," Regis says next, pointing at another open door beside it. That room is smaller and darker, heavy curtains drawn over the windows, but Geralt can see a computer on a desk otherwise piled high with stacks of papers that are each topped by a green pen. "My botanical medicine laboratory was back by the guest room - a large closet we repurposed by putting in a window and proper ventilation - but I can give you a peek later if you're curious." Geralt definitely is curious, with the way Dettlaff and Regis have carefully effectively turned their apartment into part living space and part work space. Geralt's home layout is <em>stuff goes where it goes</em>. Regis gestures at a closed door and says, "Our bedroom. I would invite you in, but I fear it's too much of a mess. We left off in the middle of changing the sheets and putting away our recently laundered clothes, so those are scattered about - mortifying." </p>
<p>Geralt would probably snort at Regis considering clean laundry lying around to be a mortifying mess, except that his brain is consumed by the other part of that statement: <em>Our bedroom. I would invite you in</em>... </p>
<p>Mercifully, this is when they reach the final stop on the tour. "And, finally, the bathroom." Regis opens the door and ushers Geralt into the modestly sized bathroom, which is as tidy and tastefully decorated as the rest of the apartment. Geralt stands out of the way, hovering near the shower curtain, while Regis bends down and rummages around in a cabinet under the sink. As he pulls out an assortment of items, a towel and a packaged toothbrush and something that appears to be a kit of toiletries for an unexpected guest - because apparently Regis is more prepared for unexpected guests than Geralt is for his everyday life - he catches Geralt up on the morning. "I just returned from the farmers market. While I was there, I received a very promising recipe from the woman we buy our milk from - a blueberry filling for a thick and doughy variety of rolled pancakes. Pancakes weren't originally in the breakfast plans, but they are now, as I must try that recipe out. I picked up another small houseplant, since I can't seem to stop collecting them. The neighborhood raven was quite interested in it, and I nearly had to defend it from an inquisitive beak. And I got you a pair of gloves from the knitter, too, since I've never seen you wear any. A productive shopping trip, I'd say." </p>
<p>"Sounds like it. And... thanks for the gloves." Geralt's not sure why Regis and Dettlaff are acting like him passing out drunk overnight here is so normal, to the point that Regis picked him up a pair of gloves from a knitter the farmers market instead of treating him like the pain in the ass that he is. Maybe it'd be easier if they treated him like a pain in the ass, because the more they treat Geralt like they want him here, the more Geralt wishes this <em>was</em> normal. </p>
<p>"You thank me for buying them, and I'll thank you for wearing them. I mean it, Geralt, I can't abide your poor hands freezing. Speaking of freezing - the sink faucet runs cold at first, but once the water heats up, it heats up quickly, so exercise caution. The shower is much the same. For cold water, turn the handle to the left, for hot water, turn it to the right. The shower is a bit odd, in that to activate it you have to raise and twist the lever - you'll see the one - but it won't seem strange to you after the first two or three times you use it." Regis pushes himself to his feet, scanning over the pile of things he's put out on the counter beside the sink. "Now. Toiletries, instructions, is there anything we're missing... Ah! Clothes. Dettlaff's clothing may not fit you perfectly, but his pajamas seem to fit you well enough. The outfit will be gloomier than your usual preferences, but clean nonetheless. I will return with one momentarily." </p>
<p>Geralt stands there staring at Regis's back as he walks out of the bathroom muttering ingredients in the blueberry pancake-filling recipe to himself, as if he didn't just express an intent to dress Geralt in his partner's clothes right after implying there was a chance Geralt would use their shower more than <em>two or three times</em>. Maybe Regis was just using the general <em>you</em> in a way that made it sound like he was talking about Geralt specifically, or maybe Regis expects Geralt to spill something on himself during breakfast, or - Geralt doesn't know. He can't guess in what circumstances Regis was imagining Geralt using their shower again. And maybe again. And maybe more times after that. </p>
<p>While Regis is gone, Geralt takes the opportunity to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. He feels a little less disgusting and a little less sick now that his mouth doesn't taste like he licked the pavement on the way back to the apartment - which he really hopes he didn't do - but only a little less. The toothbrush holder is made from a square block of wood that's been hollowed out and smoothed down and engraved with a raven, and it looks like Dettlaff's handiwork. Which reminds Geralt of the small carved Vigilosaur that now sits on the desk in his home office observing and sneering at him, keeping him company along with the Cute Endrega while he writes. And the Vigilosaur reminds Geralt of the note it came with, the raven drawing and maybe-poem in calligraphy on the nice stationery paper that Geralt - well, fucked up and spilled tea on, because he's an idiot. An idiot who got home, took the note out of the little red bag, set it down on his desk while he looked for his glasses so he could read the small slanted cursive handwriting, and then ruined with an elbowed-over mug that apparently still held just enough black tea to render the ink illegible. Ciri always tells Geralt not to lose his glasses and to put his mugs in the sink, and Geralt can now add another entry to the miles-long "Times I Should've Listened To Ciri" list. Because Geralt didn't want to admit to Regis and Dettlaff that he ruined their present, and by now, the window of time that it would've been semi-acceptable to do that has passed. So Geralt may never know what the note said. </p>
<p>"May I come in?" Regis's voice calls from outside the door, accompanied by two short knocks. Geralt makes a grunting noise of assent, feeling like he's been caught in his crime even though Regis probably - hopefully - can't read minds. Regis nudges the door open and re-enters the bathroom, placing a stack of black clothing in Geralt's arms. "Your - well, Dettlaff's - clothing. As fetching as you would look in the stylish options, I chose from the more comfortable section of his wardrobe. The scent of the bath products in the kit should be inoffensive, but I know a hungover nose is a fickle creature, so feel free to use any of ours if that one doesn't suit. Well, I shall leave you in peace. If you need anything else, call for me and I will be happy to assist." </p>
<p>Regis leaves just as quickly as he came, leaving Geralt standing there clutching a pile of gloomy clothes to his chest and looking in the direction of the odd lever in the shower that Regis thinks he might get used to. </p>
<p>The water does run cold and heat up fast, and Geralt manages to scorch himself despite Regis's warning. The body wash and shampoo and conditioner are just as inoffensive as they're supposed to be, kind of a light herbal scent, but Geralt's traitorous brain has a second where it points out that he could use one of the couple's products. Regis explicitly handed him an excuse to smell like one of them, if he wanted. Geralt squashes that down, though, because it has to be some kind of association thing. The only time he uses someone else's shower is when he's at Emhyr's place, and he always leaves it smelling like Emhyr, so his subconscious must've made some kind of connection that carries over to other people's homes. It's just the general idea of smelling like the shower's owner that's carrying over, Geralt is sure, not the idea of smelling like <em>theirs</em>. Because it wouldn't meant that to Dettlaff or Regis, it wouldn't make them think of Geralt as theirs, even though Geralt wants - </p>
<p>- fuck. Geralt realizes, paused under shower water that's gradually growing scorching again with conditioner running into his eyes, what he wants. He doesn't want to just be part of what the couple has going on, even if it's just as a third wheel. Geralt wants to belong to them. He wants them to claim him. He wants them to feel possessive when they call him things that start with <em>my</em> and <em>our</em>, and he wants them to feel giving when they sign their messages with <em>yours</em>. He wants them to think of him as something they have, and something they can keep. Geralt wants to be <em>theirs</em>. </p>
<p>And that's the saddest fucking thing. Because Geralt can't have that. Dettlaff and Regis wouldn't want to claim an inconvenience, an imposition, a mess like him. And even if by some miracle they did, Geralt couldn't stick them with himself. They wouldn't want Geralt to belong to them, and even if they did, Geralt couldn't burden them with himself. Geralt wants to be Emhyr's, and he wants to be Dettlaff's, and he wants to be Regis's, but Geralt isn't right for anybody and he keeps wanting things he can't have. A relationship that doesn't hurt, the ability to write something that doesn't need to be rewritten by someone a hundred times better than him, an achievement he reached on his own, an accomplishment worthy of his daughter's pride, and something left over for himself. </p>
<p>Geralt sits on the tile floor under the too-hot shower spray until he remembers that his painfully cliche method of sulking will show up on the apartment's water bill, and that he only has so long until Regis will worry that he's drowned. He twists and lowers the odd lever, steps out of the shower, dries himself off with the fluffy blue towel left out for him, and then dresses himself in the clothes of a man he's now aching over without looking in the mirror. Geralt doesn't want to know what he'd look like, because seeing himself in Dettlaff's clothes wouldn't mean the same thing to Dettlaff that it would to Geralt, and it would mean something to Geralt when it shouldn't mean anything at all. </p>
<p>The apartment feels colder when Geralt steps out of the hot and humid bathroom, and  he wraps himself tighter in the long and heavy cardigan sweater he was given. Normally he wouldn't wear something like this, but it's warm and he doesn't feel good and apparently his secret enjoyment of sweaters that are too big for him extends to this kind too. Regis was right about the clothes not fitting perfectly, but being comfortable. Geralt had to roll up the cuffs of the black jeans to keep them from ending part of the way down his now sock-clad feet, but they've been worn until they're flexible and soft. The shirt is tight around his chest, but the shoulders are broad enough. The boxer briefs, however, Geralt isn't thinking about. He might short-circuit if remembers that he's not only seen Dettlaff's underwear but <em>worn</em> it. Clean underwear is clean underwear, though, and Geralt likes to start every day with clean underwear. </p>
<p>The kitchen is empty, so Geralt slinks past it, wondering if maybe he's gotten lucky and the couple has left him some tea on the dining room table and gone off to do other things that aren't talking to him. Geralt's not sure how to properly interact with them, after what he realized in the shower. Best case scenario would be not having to show his face right now, but if he does cross paths with them, then being hungover will actually work in his favor. Having an excuse to be quiet and act strange is a useful thing to have now. Sure enough, Geralt has been left a cup of tea on the dining room table. And sure enough, it's been left there by the people who are sitting at it now. </p>
<p>"There you are. I'd begun to worry you'd drowned," Regis says, turning and smiling at Geralt. He and Dettlaff have set a platter of thick rolled pancakes and bacon in the middle of the table, along with a bowl of fruit salad. They both have empty plates in front of them, and Geralt wonders why they're still sitting at the table with their dishes if they've finished eating, but then he figures it out. They were in the middle of a quiet and seemingly intimate conversation that Geralt wouldn't have disrupted if he'd witnessed it before becoming a disruption. This whole incident, though, has been one extended saga of Geralt being a disruption. "How are you feeling? You're looking a bit better - both physically and sartorially. Dettlaff's clothing is very fetching on you." </p>
<p>"Yes. Very attractive." Dettlaff is looking Geralt over with such a close and intense gaze that it puts most of his studying or reaction-observing looks to shame. Geralt's mostly burrowed inside a giant sweater, and being so scrutinized by those piercing blue eyes still makes him feel exposed and shivery. "Perhaps you should wear my clothes more often." </p>
<p>"Oh, Geralt, your expression! Dettlaff, after all my half-hearted chiding, you still persist in flustering a victim who is so helpless to your charms. You needn't torment Geralt for the crime of looking absolutely darling when you do it." Regis gestures towards the chair across from him as Geralt shivers in the oversized sweater with his mind completely blank and his ears feeling extremely flushed. His processing mechanism has shut down entirely, probably aware that if any part of those sentences reaches the logical part of his brain then it'll be all over for him - whatever <em>it</em> is. "Come, Geralt, sit with us. The tea is a medicinal brew, which should alleviate some of the unpleasant lingering effects of your night of excitement. Food will help as well, though I know the thought of it may not be appealing at the moment. However, I am happy to report that the blueberry-filled pancakes are just as excellent as promised. Perhaps those are a good place to start." </p>
<p>Geralt nods, putting himself down in the chair with a wince at a complaint from his knee and looking down at the table. Within a moment, a plate of pancakes and bacon appears in the spot he's staring at. Regis is right about the thought of eating not being an enjoyable one. He's started to feel hungry, but his stomach is doing a very unpleasant squirming thing that makes him uninclined to do anything about it. He doesn't doubt the pancakes are good, but he does doubt he'd keep them down very long if he started there as suggested. Geralt mumbles a <em>thanks</em>, and sips the unspecified medicinal brew. </p>
<p>"Ah. We should catch you up on the emergency that necessitated our hasty exit from the pub last night," Regis says. Geralt snaps his head up in alarm, which doesn't help the ache in it, but neither does the information that he apparently caused some kind of emergency that made them have to flee from the pub. He'd hoped he hadn't fucked up that badly, but of course he wouldn't be so lucky. Regis laughs at the look on his face, which is extremely confusing until he clarifies, "The emergency call that Dettlaff and I had to take, which caused us to leave you unattended for - four of your six pints, I believe." </p>
<p>"Sounds like a story," Geralt says, his sore body sagging in relief to discover he's not a character in it. He takes another calming drink of the brew, which doesn't taste the best, but that probably means it has things his depleted system needs. "Love to hear it." </p>
<p>Regis launches into an animated retelling of a tale he calls "a cover art kerfuffle", which means another author Regis is working with hated the final cover art that was done for her book - even though she approved of the concept and the sketch - and caused "much ruffling of feathers" over it. She's apparently too big a deal to be told that's her cover art and she has to deal with it, so when she insisted on throwing the whole thing out, the publisher got stuck doing "a mad scramble to magic up a hasty yet high-quality replacement". The publisher's solution, it turns out, was to bring in Dettlaff to do some new art and have a long multiple department conference call about it. Geralt nods along and makes faces at the right moments, because he thinks the author sounds like a pain in the ass and the story is distracting him enough to try eating. Regis concludes by tactfully cutting off right before the part where they re-entered the pub and found Geralt too drunk to sit up straight, which Geralt appreciates. </p>
<p>"And there you have it - the lament of an editor and illustrator tossed about in the tempest that arises from the whims of a fickle yet best-selling master of fantasy-themed raunchy literature. Despite the agony Keira Metz causes me as an editor, however, I highly recommend all her books. I admit to happily indulging in the occasional bodice-ripper, and Keira's talent for combining melodramatic plotlines and overwrought prose with the most titillating pornographic content you will ever read is simply unparalleled. Her work would be considered atrocious in most other genres, as she will proudly tell you, but in the realm of steamy romance novels it is the gold standard. Dettlaff's art will be quite risque, from what I understand, and that's certainly something we can look forward to. Now, how are the pancakes?" Regis smiles at Geralt like he didn't just inform him that he's been editing graphic smut, it's hot as hell, Dettlaff's drawing mature art for it, and Geralt should check that out. "Have you reached a verdict on the recipe - or, I suppose, my execution thereof?" </p>
<p>"Um. Good." Geralt gives Regis an incredibly awkward thumbs up, because now he's thinking about Regis and Dettlaff reading <em>titillating pornographic content</em> and that's quite a thought. Geralt's not sure if the pancakes are actually good, because his strategy for getting food down without feeling nauseous was to not think too much about the food, and then he got distracted by the whole smutty books thing. Maybe Geralt should take Regis's advice on reading the porn, because he kissed his sex life goodbye during a recent explosive argument and it might be a really long time until he kisses anything else. That won't help him not think about how he'd like to kiss the editor and illustrator of that porn, though, which would be an even bigger problem. And, fuck. Geralt needs to stop thinking right there. "Yeah. Pancakes. Good." </p>
<p>"Glad to hear it. I aim to please. Though I gather from your plate that you're still not feeling up to eating much?" Regis indicates Geralt's mostly untouched food, and Geralt nods. He doesn't want to disappoint Regis, but he's hit his limit of what his queasy stomach can handle at the moment. "Understandable. But I will no doubt make blueberry-filled pancakes again on a more optimal morning, given the resounding success of the recipe, and I'll be sure to extend you an invitation when I do. Please feel free to stop by for breakfast on any morning, pancakes or not - you're always welcome to join us, and we'd always love to have you." </p>
<p>Geralt blinks at Regis, and then at Dettlaff, trying to determine if Regis actually means that or if he's just being polite. Considering how welcoming Regis is, he probably does mean it, but he'd also probably invite just about anyone over for breakfast. Given his "optimizing conditions" philosophy, it makes sense that he'd offer Geralt a standing invitation to mitigate his forgetting-about-breakfast problem. But Regis did say <em>join us</em> and <em>we'd always love</em>, implying the involvement of Dettlaff, who seems a lot less inclined to invite just about anyone to intrude on a quiet morning at home. That must be normal for friends, Geralt guesses. He wouldn't know, considering his chronic lack of them. So he shouldn't read too much into it. Shouldn't read too much into them genuinely wanting him around. </p>
<p>Dettlaff looks deep into Geralt's eyes, that look that always has Geralt feeling like he's caught in some kind of net. "Please join us again." </p>
<p>"Yeah. Guess I - could," Geralt says, still stuck in Dettlaff's eyes, and then becomes very distinctly aware that he's dressed in Dettlaff's clothes. He doesn't know why that suddenly comes to mind, but it feels like it has something to do with the way that Dettlaff's gaze is changing. It feels familiar, but he can't place why. He feels like he's seen that look before, from somebody else, or maybe Dettlaff, and he - doesn't get it. There's something stuck in the back of his mind that won't shake loose. "I'd - if you don't mind. I'd like that." </p>
<p>"I would like that as well," Dettlaff says, low in a way that makes Geralt feel like the heavy sweater he's wrapped in is somehow exposing him. "I would like to see you more often, and Regis would as well. As often as you would like to see us." </p>
<p>"Didn't scare you off with <em>this</em>?" Geralt is finally able to joke, pulling himself out of the net he's trapped in by the sheer force of his need to lighten the mood before he gets tangled up further. Tangled up irreparably. Stuck utterly and totally in what he's feeling about the way Dettlaff is looking at him, the way he can't place, and the couple wanting to see him more. Geralt gestures from the living room sofa to the guest bedroom to himself, twisting his lips in a wry smile. "Haven't been the best houseguest so far." </p>
<p>"You livened up our evening, that's for certain." Regis chuckles, in a way that's more fond than Geralt's drunken escapades deserve. "We reserve no judgement. I'm glad we were able to help - I know a breakup can be a difficult time, even moreso when one has experienced a severe betrayal. You have our support for as long as you need it, and I hope we can provide you reassurance on the subject of your book deal as well as the end of your relationship."</p>
<p>Geralt freezes up. He suddenly feels very, very sick, and this time it doesn't have anything to do with his hangover. <em>Severe betrayal. Your book deal</em>. "Subject of my book deal," Geralt says, slowly. He remembers slurring out some kind of story last night, curled up on Dettlaff with Regis trying to comfort him. He's getting a horrible inkling of what that story might've been. "What'd I say about that?" </p>
<p>Dettlaff and Regis exchange a look, and, fuck. From that look, Geralt thinks the answer might be <em>everything</em>. Geralt's gotten good enough at reading the two of them to know that look is a combination of what-are-we-going-to-say and who's-going-to-say-it, even though who's-going-to-say-it is pretty much always Regis and what-are-we-going-to-say is pretty much always the nicest possible version of something that's not a lie but also might not be the complete truth. Geralt isn't the best at interpreting social situations, but it doesn't take much deduction to understand that look is happening because Regis doesn't want to tell him something that's going to be hard to put a positive spin on. Geralt's head throbs, his insides churn, and he feels almost as bad as when he woke up but for a completely different reason. He knew he was getting off the hook too easily, that his senselessly drunk self couldn't have caused as little damage to his life and relationships as Regis and Dettlaff were leading him to believe. That things were going too smoothly, and there had to be something worse. Yet again, Geralt was right to feel like there was another shoe that was going to drop, something terrible lurking beneath the surface that he hadn't stumbled across yet. At least this time, it didn't take Geralt ten months to figure out what the terrible thing was. </p>
<p>"Just tell me what I said," Geralt says, because he can't stand the sight of them trying to figure out how to spare his feelings any longer. "Not like it's anything I don't know about." </p>
<p>"You told us a tale - well, you called it a work of nonfiction, in the mystery and horror genres." Regis smiles, but it's not an amused smile; it's a smile that's trying to soften a blow Geralt has already taken, and is waiting to feel the full impact of. "Surprisingly compellingly told, given the blood alcohol content of its narrator. Though I strongly called into question the reliability of its narrator, and still do, the gist was as follows: a man named Geralt Bellegarde had a breakup-inducing argument with his ex-lover Emhyr var Emreis, during which Emhyr told Geralt that he had met with Tissaia de Vries and convinced her to reverse the rejection of Geralt's book pitch. And that proclamation - bear in mind I am simply performing literary analysis of the "Geralt Bellegarde" character's thoughts as they were relayed in the story's narration - severely worsened Geralt's impostor syndrome." </p>
<p>Figures that Geralt suddenly starts thinking like a writer when he's stumbling drunk and hiding embarrassing secrets. Geralt winces as his head gives another aggressive throb. And all he can think of to say is, "Nonfiction can be pretty shit." </p>
<p>"Well, the genre classification is another aspect of the story I called into question. While this story may involve real life events, I felt that the possibility of major flaws in its accuracy due to certain omissions and assumptions - combined with the unreliability of the narrator - needed to be addressed." Regis reaches across the table, and Geralt knows that gesture. Dutifully, he puts his hand in Regis's and lets it be held. "I'd like to discuss those omissions and assumptions with you, if you don't mind." </p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head. He might be holding Regis's hand, but the teal blue surface of the ceramic plate holding his breakfast has decided to command his attention. The vibrant teal of the plate is a lot easier to look at than the concerned black of Regis's eyes. "Rather not." </p>
<p>"I think it might make you feel better to talk about it with me," Regis says gently. He rubs his thumb over Geralt's hand, the way he does so often and Geralt likes so much. It usually gets Geralt to open up to him, or at least nudges him a little in that direction, but it won't this time. "I have something to say about the book situation that could help you." </p>
<p>"Done enough talking about the book shit," Geralt says, because he couldn't stand to hear Regis try to convince him that he's talented or worthy or whatever Regis wants to prod his ego with to keep him from sulking. Regis would have good intentions, and he might even believe what he was saying, but Geralt doesn't want to hear bullshit. It won't work when Regis tries it, and it sure didn't work when Emhyr tried it. Geralt still feels the same way he did during their argument, which is that he's not going to be able to believe a mess of an email the Continent's top strategy consultant negotiated out of the trash bin deserved to end up getting a book deal. "Nothing anybody could say that'd make it better, at this point. Sorry, Regis. Know you mean well. But talking about it more just makes it worse. Best thing to do is move on." </p>
<p>Regis is quiet for a long time. Then, finally, he squeezes Geralt's hand. "Alright, Geralt. If there's truly nothing anyone could say that would help, nothing at all, then I respect your wishes. Will you be eating more of your breakfast, or should I clear the dishes away?" </p>
<p>"You can clear them," Geralt mumbles, and squeezes Regis's hand in return. He knows how hard it is for Regis not to pry, especially when he thinks he could help someone or impart wisdom upon them. He also knows how hard it is for Regis to let Geralt sulk. He appreciates the restraint it's taking for Regis to let this one go. "Thanks. Sorry." </p>
<p>"Come with me." Dettlaff gets up and walks over to Geralt, helping him out of his chair in a way that he doesn't really need to be helped. Or maybe he does, since his body still aches and his knee might be getting stiffer as the morning goes on. He's definitely learned his lesson about drinking with reckless abandon. Dettlaff guides Geralt across the apartment and to the living room, sitting him down on the sofa before he can come up with an excuse to avoid the negative associations he now has with the piece of furniture. It's colder over here, closer to the big window, and Geralt snuggles further into the warm cardigan sweater. Dettlaff notices, because nothing slips by him, and takes a heavy white knit blanket off the nearby armchair to drape over Geralt's back. Geralt burrows under the wool, letting Dettlaff wrap it around him without complaint, and stays burrowed under to suppress his disappointment when Dettlaff walks away and disappears into his studio. </p>
<p>Geralt sits there for a while, hunched in his blanket wrap on the sofa and feeling rude for not offering to help Regis clean up. Regis would've rejected the offer instantly, and Geralt knows it, but he should've given it anyway. He listens to the soft clink of dishes and cutlery as Regis picks them up and transports them from the dining area to the kitchen, and footsteps going back and forth on the wood floor with each of the multiple trips he takes to do it. At least Geralt's not getting in the way over here. In a way, Geralt hopes they'll forget about him, since as long as he's not bothering them they presumably won't hint he should leave. He likes being part of the couple's morning, Regis cleaning up after breakfast and Dettlaff working in his studio, even if it's just as the pitiful third wheel he is. The pitiful third wheel who's happy to be a third wheel, if that's what he can have. The third wheel who's hunched under a blanket, the weight of being told how much the couple would like to see him, and the crushing disappointment of knowing they want him to be part of their relationship but stay on the outside of it while Geralt wants to be inside of it so much. Funny how Geralt keeps realizing he wants to be with people at the worst possible moment and then wishing he never figured it out. </p>
<p>"Are you feeling warmer?" Dettlaff's reappeared beside Geralt on the sofa, and Geralt looks up at him, wondering when he came back. He nods, feeling even warmer because Dettlaff came back. Dettlaff's got his sketchbook and a charcoal pencil now, the book open to a page with today's date in the upper right hand corner. His daily practice so far consists of a sketch of a small houseplant that's probably the one Regis brought back from the farmer's market, and a sheet halfway pulled off a bed with the folds of the fabric in a position that looks like a wave - Geralt can now guess the reason the sheets didn't get fully changed, which is that Dettlaff stopped in the middle of changing them to draw them when they ended up in a pose he found interesting. Dettlaff begins to sketch a bowl of fruit salad, full of the same cut fruits as the one on the breakfast table, and doesn't seem to mind Geralt watching him. When Dettlaff finishes the fruit salad drawing, he moves on to a white knit blanket - with a head sticking out of it, messy white hair that falls over curled shoulders and down a slumped back. Geralt. Dettlaff's drawing Geralt. He's not even looking up at Geralt, and still getting the position of his hair perfect. He must have memorized it at some point, after only a quick glance. <em>Every day, I draw what is on my mind</em>. </p>
<p>"Don't mind me. You two look so cozy that I couldn't bear to be left out." Regis sits on  the sofa on Geralt's other side, patting the approximate location of Geralt's knee over the blanket. Regis looks out the window at the bright winter sky, smiling as the old bell in the North Daevon clock tower tolls softly in the distance. "Noon already. A lovely piece of history, that clock tower. The sound of the bell on a quiet sunny morning spent in the company of lovers and friends makes one feel a sense of connection, thinking of the hundreds of years' worth of lovers and friends that have enjoyed such a morning while listening to the same bell. For all that changes throughout the ages, the bonds that humans form remain the same. - Or, perhaps, the sound of the bell worsens a headache and makes one think of the hundreds of years' worth of people who have also winced at the sound of the same bell after a night of overindulgence. Drunken revelry, drunken sorrow, and drunken attempts to soothe a broken heart - these are things that also endure throughout time." </p>
<p>"Yeah. About that." Geralt looks down at his lap, studying the repetitive pattern of the knit forming the blanket. "Think I owe you an explanation. Probably should've brought up Emhyr before I downed enough pints to ruin your evening about him." </p>
<p>Dettlaff sets down his sketchbook and pencil, judging by the noises to Geralt's left, and says in a very serious voice, "You owe us nothing. Your relationships are your own." </p>
<p>"After all this -" Geralt pokes a hand out from under the blanket just enough to wave it around, hoping the gesture conveys a general sense of <em>everything</em>, "I think it's fair." </p>
<p>"Your relationships are your own, as Dettlaff said. He and I will never feel entitled to anything you wish to keep private," Regis says. "I know I do tend to pry, but I can be shooed away from boundaries with a few simple words. However, should you ever wish to unburden yourself of anything, or share private details with us, we are happy to listen and keep them in utmost confidentiality. If that happens to include an explanation regarding the cause and severity of your broken heart, or the one who broke it, we will welcome it." </p>
<p>Geralt tries to decide how to start. He pulls his hand back under the blanket where it's warm, and thinks. It's hard to know where to begin talking about a relationship that didn't have a defined beginning or a defined middle. The only thing defined about it was the end. It's hard to know how to explain a relationship that the people involved in it didn't understand, or, at least, didn't want to share with the other what they thought they understood. It's hard to put a relationship into words when it was largely built around not putting anything into words. It was put into sex and kisses and cuddles and comfort and gifts and acts of caring, so that it could escape the use of words. It's hard to assess a relationship where the highs were so high, and the lows were so low, and everything in between was impossible to pin down. It's hard for Geralt to convey to anyone, including himself, what Emhyr var Emreis meant - and still means - to him. </p>
<p>"The relationship," Geralt finally says. "Complicated thing with my daughter's biological father. Emhyr. We've had shared custody of Ciri for about six years. He put me and her through the wringer for that split, and I hated him. Fought with him nonstop. He was an asshole, and kept making parenting decisions without talking to me about them, so I was an asshole back. That all kept up until the bitter end. Two years into the shared custody, Emhyr and I couldn't put up with each other anymore, so we fucked. Kept sleeping together after that, because I guess we hated ourselves as much as each other. Never told Ciri about it, obviously. Thing is, Emhyr was making Ciri's life better, and Ciri started to like him, and he put a pause on the asshole act every so often. We still hated each other, but then we started developing this thing - don't know what - where we loved each other. Kept loving each other more and more, until we were just pretending we hated each other because, fuck, I don't know what we were scared of. Emhyr took care of Ciri, got her into a good school and bought her everything she needed and helped her with college applications and jobs, stuff I could never do for her. And Emhyr took care of me. Treated me like a fuckin' princess. Gave me everything I wanted - sex, gifts, love, food, clothes, a garden, a future for our daughter - as long as it wasn't commitment, an end to his <em>decisions</em>, or an end to the fighting. Funny enough, that's what got us to the breaking point. Emhyr giving me things I wanted. Because he found out I wanted to write a book." </p>
<p>Geralt leans forward and braces an elbow on his thigh, letting the blanket slip off him so he can rest his forehead on his hand. His hair falls forward and gets into his face, forming a curtain in front of his eyes, and he looks like as much of a mess as he feels. The blanket is immediately back to covering his cold and slumped body, draped over him by Dettlaff and held in place by Dettlaff's and Regis's arms around him. Geralt closes his eyes and sits there with them in silence for a while, hurting and raw and ruined but warm. </p>
<p>"It was for the best," Geralt says, eventually, lifting his head out of his hand. "The breakup. Our relationship never could've worked, the way it was. The fight was ugly, but it needed to happen. Both our faults, and a long time coming. I told Emhyr we both needed to fix our shit. Said I'd fix mine, and if he ever fixed his, he could call me and we could try again from scratch. Don't know if he ever will, or if he even can. So, that's where we are now. Relationship's over, Emhyr's an asshole, and I'm ruining my life because I still fucking love him." </p>
<p>"Oh, Geralt. My dearest. You aren't ruining anything - at least, not with us." Regis adjusts the blanket when it slips again, drooping on Geralt's shoulders when Dettlaff removes his arm. Dettlaff brushes Geralt's hair out of his face with big and gentle hands, smoothing the displaced white strands back, and then tilts Geralt's head so it's resting on his shoulder. Geralt gets that same feeling, that cared-for and low-point feeling, that makes him squeeze his eyes shut. He rarely gets emotional in front of people, mostly limiting it to those nights where he wakes up from a nightmare in bed with Emhyr, and he's had people assume more times than he can count that he's emotionless. Part of that is because he's not a very emotional person, and part of that is because he doesn't like showing the weaker parts of himself to people. Maybe, in that way, he's not too different from Emhyr. Geralt doesn't want to get emotional in front of Dettlaff and Regis now, even considering what they are to him. They're his creative team, they're his close friends, and Geralt would give them his heart if they asked for it. He's already given them part of his heart, even knowing they don't want to claim it as theirs like he wants them to. But then Regis says, "Your love is far too precious of a thing to be treated in ways that hurt." </p>
<p>Geralt nods, his voice raspy and cracked when he admits the truth. "It hurts." </p>
<p>Outside the window, under the rays of sun that warm the chilly afternoon, the old clock tower chimes again. The toll of the bell feels off beat, and sounds a little off pitch, a reminder of it age. Geralt thinks about what Regis said, about human bonds that endure throughout time, and understands the feeling of connection that Regis talked about. Geralt didn't feel like there was anything special about the way he got his heart broken, like there's anything unusually deep about the way he feels, or like there's anything unique about how his relationship failed. The sound of the bell reminds him of how ordinary this is, of the hundreds of years' worth of people who have been through this exact same thing - maybe with a few details changed - and how utterly routine this situation is. Humans spend quiet sunny mornings with lovers and friends, they get drunk and do stupid things, and they fall for the wrong people and get their hearts broken. That's just how it goes. Geralt's far from the first person to do all of those things. And he's far from the first person to do all of those things over and over, making the same mistakes over and over again. </p>
<p>"No use sulking about it," Geralt says finally, with a little grating laugh that comes out with an edge of bitterness on a soft and trembling outer layer of humor. "It's what I do. You want to find a doomed relationship, set me loose and see what direction I go. Guarantee you I'll head for the wrong people and get myself into something that'll bite me in the ass. Hell, I'm doing it now. I can't pick 'em. Guess I'm in for a whole lot of hurt." </p>
<p>Dettlaff draws Geralt closer against his side, and Regis moves with them to keep the blanket in place around Geralt. "Love does not need to hurt. You do not need to hurt either." </p>
<p>Geralt lets himself curl into Dettlaff and Regis and, just for a few minutes, pretend that's true. Not that love doesn't need to hurt - he knows that's true, because of the couple holding him. He can see how happy the two of them are together, how strong their relationship is, how well they fit each other, and how wonderful their shared life is. They work on joint creative projects in adjoining workspaces, they curl up on cold nights to drink tea and read, they have intimate conversations over lazy morning breakfasts, they've established go-to tearooms and pubs, they carry their important things in the same messenger bag, and they've developed a lifestyle where one of them can stop in the middle of changing the sheets to draw them and the other one will love him for it. The couple has been through hell together, helped each other through the worst times in their lives, and they've come out on the other side with something that is scarred and weathered but beautiful. Geralt knows, from being around Regis and Dettlaff, how love can survive difficult things and carry reminders of pain, but not hurt. Geralt knows this, because it's what made him fall for the couple. </p>
<p>And that's why Geralt has to pretend that the second part is true - that <em>he</em> doesn't need to hurt. Geralt can't love anyone without it hurting. He can't love his daughter without being scared something bad will happen to her, so scared that he's almost cried after nightmares about her death. He can't love his co-parent without being scared of admitting he cares about their relationship, so scared that he couldn't say he wanted them to work on themselves and be together before things between them were too broken to fix. He can't love his friends without being scared it will break his heart, so scared that he can't accept they want him to be closer to them because it will pull him deeper into pining over the things he can't have. He can't love his book without being scared it will prove he's not good enough, so scared he can't let himself think it might be good or he might be good because he might have his illusion shattered like he did the other night. He can't love - </p>
<p>- anything, because he's scared. </p>
<p>He's scared because it hurts. It hurts because he's scared. And if that isn't some twisted shit, then Geralt doesn't know what is. </p>
<p>"I'm going to make some tea. I'll heat up more of that medicinal brew for you, Geralt, if you can suffer through the taste again - it's formulated to soothe both the body and the mind, and I think that could be of benefit to you now." Regis makes sure to secure the blanket around Geralt before getting up from the sofa. Then Regis pauses in front of Geralt, bending down a bit to cup Geralt's left cheek in his palm, giving him a lingering look that seems like he wants to say something else or do something else that Geralt can't guess. Finally, Regis gives Geralt's cheekbone and scar a few gentle strokes with his thumb and then lets go of him, heading off towards the kitchen. He pauses behind the sofa to touch the top of Geralt's head and say, "In case it's not apparent, dearest, since I know you overlook obvious signs that you are wanted, Dettlaff and I would both like you to rest and recuperate here until you're feeling well again. And we would be happy for you to stay as long as you'd like after that." </p>
<p>Dettlaff has taken his sketchbook back onto his lap, and is continuing the quick charcoal strokes of his daily practice. Geralt leans on him and watches, finding the motions of the pencil soothing. The old North Daevon clock tower takes shape on the page, the rusted bell and the cracks in the stones forming the structure and the clock with its hands positioned at noon. Near it appears a realistic human heart, so detailed that it could appear in an anatomy textbook. And then, on either side of it, two more hearts. Geralt feels at peace, watching Dettlaff give form to ancient and strange things. In a momentary flight of fancy, he lets himself think of the three hearts on the page as the ones beating in the three of their chests. Together. And he pretends that love doesn't have to hurt for him. </p>
<p>The sharp smell of the medicinal brew precedes Regis. A cup appears in front of Geralt, held steadily out until he gets it solidly in his grasp. Geralt takes the first biting sip as Regis leans over him to inspect Dettlaff's sketches. Geralt looks over too, and feels an overwhelming sense of warmth and closeness and yearning as finally, <em>finally</em>, the couple leans in and presses their lips together in a soft but passionate kiss in front of Geralt. Regis strokes the sketchbook page next to the hearts with a long nail, like Geralt does with the beasts. "Very romantic, Dettlaff. You do have a flair for the dark and gruesome side of the beauty of love." </p>
<p>Geralt sips the concoction at a moderate pace, wanting the effects to kick in faster but wanting the drink to last longer. It's unpleasant, but stretching out the medicine will stretch out the "rest and recuperate" time that Regis insisted on him staying for. Regis rejoins the two of them on the sofa after retrieving tea for Dettlaff and himself, and starts talking about that houseplant he picked up at the farmers market. It's a Bird's Nest Fern that's been set in a dimmer corner of the room, since ferns aren't fans of direct sunlight. It's smaller than most of its companions but just as spry. Apparently its leaves are good in a variety of teas and brews and potions, and Regis is brimming with facts about its genus and the kind of conditions and care it likes. Geralt likes plants, and he likes hearing about them, so he nods along while wishing he could absorb more of the plant facts. Eventually, Regis concludes his botany lesson with a conclusive, "And that's why I have chosen to name my fern Raven Bait - a dark joke, and a bit of a taunt to a predator that failed. Geralt, I will offer you an opportunity to cut in with a topic of your own, before I set off on another winding trail of pontification without being aware that I am headed down an extensive and lengthy path. Is there any conversation you'd like to have?" </p>
<p>"Actually... I would." Geralt had forgotten about the matter he'd wanted to bring up with his editor and illustrator at their next meeting, with everything going on. And maybe it would've been better if that matter stayed forgotten, since he's already done so much imposing on his creative team both professionally and personally. But he thinks it's the kind of opportunity they'd want to at least be able to make a choice to take or leave, given how big it could be for <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>. Geralt knows Dettlaff and Regis well enough by now to know there's a chance they'd think his idea is worth the hell it could bring down upon them. "Know this is a bad time, for a lot of reasons. Good chance whoever's in charge wouldn't sign off on it, seeing how the publisher feels about my book, even if you wanted to see where it'd take us. We're on a deadline with a lot of work, probably wouldn't give you the best quality either, so, feel free to tell me no -" </p>
<p>"My dear author, The more reluctant you are to ask, the more intrigued I am. And the more pushback you think you would get from higher-ups, the more I think you might be on to something." Regis encouragingly squeezes Geralt's knee over the blanket. "Please, go on." </p>
<p>"Thought maybe we could... add another cryptid to the book. Another chapter." Geralt looks up at Dettlaff and then Regis, wanting to get a sense of where they are with this. If they look skeptical, or disapproving, or incredulous, or anything that'd tell him he should stop. But instead, they both look curious. Interested. Dettlaff's even leaned in, giving Geralt a deeply inquisitive stare like he's trying to read his mind to find out what the cryptid is. Which is better than Geralt hoped. Even before he started second-guessing every word he's ever written after finding out he shouldn't actually be a writer at all, he struggled over the decision to ask them about a thirteenth chapter for many reasons. The workload, the probable pushback from the publisher, and the fact that it's hard to picture anyone wanting any more of his writing than he's already imposing upon them. But Geralt decided, ultimately, that this all added to his case. And what he just found out about his book deal closes it. Now that he knows how much <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> needs to prove itself - that there's anything special about it, anything good about it, or that it should even exist - he needs to take any chance possible to give it value. </p>
<p>"Go on," Regis prompts, and Dettlaff nods as well. </p>
<p>"There's this creature called The Caretaker," Geralt begins. "Weirdest and scariest relict I've ever heard of, even freaks me out. Mysterious, though. Hard to get any info about it - all you can get is scraps of recollections from old nobles in Redania that don't want to talk much. Tried to interview a few when I was in the area, but they're guarded and scared and their memories are going. Looked all over, and I couldn't find anything written down about it. But then I got this artifact, handwritten journal from the first person to ever see it - guy named Olgierd von Everic from the Gustfields. Emhyr sent me the journal, actually. Can't guess how much it's worth, or how he got it, but the information in it is priceless. Apparently Olgierd actually kept The Caretaker on his estate for a while, and the information and details and stories in that manuscript... nobody in this realm has anything like that. If we did a chapter on The Caretaker, then <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> would be the only book with anything about it. Info nobody without that journal would be able to get. This could be a real breakthrough for the book." </p>
<p>"Astonishing!" Regis's eyes are wide. "You're right. That would be a tremendous breakthrough. And a crucial selling point. You're also right, unfortunately, on the difficulty of getting an additional chapter approved by the publisher, particularly at this stage in the game. The three of us might understand how valuable that chapter would be, but with their focus on deadlines and printing costs and logistics and this and that, an information shortage in the cryptid lore world wouldn't be of much interest to them." </p>
<p>"Yeah." Geralt saw this coming, and he figured he'd get shot down, so he didn't think he'd be disappointed when it happened. But he finds himself wilting anyway. "Figured." </p>
<p>"Which is why," Regis continues, "I suggest we don't tell them about our plan until we have <em>Chapter 13: The Caretaker</em> completed. For now, we shall keep this between the three of us - we'll do the writing and the art and the revisions, all beneath the radar. Then, once the chapter is in its final state, I will personally bring it to The Powers That Be myself and fight for it. I know Dettlaff would join me. A hypothetical additional chapter would be rejected out of hand, certainly. But if we can place a final piece about The Caretaker in front of them, with a gripping story and horrifying art and a strong argument for why slipping it in could provide a sharp increase in buzz and sales - I really do think they would see the value in it." </p>
<p>"You'd do that?" Geralt straightens back up, looking between Regis and Dettlaff with a spark of hope. "It'd be a lot of extra work. It'd make our deadline crunch even worse. You'd have to stick your necks out. They could still reject it, and then all that work would be -" </p>
<p>"- a labor of love," Dettlaff says, cutting Geralt off with a hand on his shoulder. "I would enjoy the chance to paint this bone-chilling relict. This chapter is important to you. I would work on it even with a guarantee it would be rejected." </p>
<p>"I would as well." Regis's voice is confident. "But worry not, I won't take no for an answer. I think you will find Dr. Emiel Regis Rollehec Terzieff-Godefroy is not easily waved off, particularly with a completed selling point in hand. This is important to you, Geralt, and to Dettlaff, and it is now important to me as well. I will do whatever I must to make it happen. One more adventure for the <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> team - lucky number thirteen." </p>
<p>"Thanks. Appreciate it," Geralt mumurs. He looks down into his now empty cup and admits, mumbled and shy, "It is important to me. And you're. You both. Important to me." </p>
<p>"We're the book. The three of us, and your daughter, are the book," Dettlaff says, reminding Geralt of that day back in September that his editor and illustrator got him to understand how much people support the strange little project he scribbles out in his beat-up notebook about unusual monsters. How much people support him. Dettlaff supports him enough to read every miniature detail of his monster descriptions and bring them to life with the appearance and character Geralt gave them. Regis supports him enough to go through his messy typo-filled drafts with the same words repeated over and over and somehow come up with nice things to say about them while rewriting them into something readable. Ciri supports him enough to pester him to write a book until he gave in and then continue to pester him to finish it and show it to her. </p>
<p>And Emhyr supports Geralt, in his own twisted way. Emhyr supports him enough to go to the Editor-in-Chief of the most reputable fantasy book publishing house on the Continent and argue that a trash fire of an email that got deleted within seconds had as much potential as a fully polished book proposal. Geralt can't imagine how much pride-swallowing that took, from the most prideful man he knows. Emhyr has brutally high standards, is almost unsatisfiably critical, and can't bear to associate himself with anything that's not perfect. And yet Emhyr met with a high-powered friend he respects and made a case for the merits of something objectively terrible, thoroughly flawed, and of such low quality that it got tossed out in the blink of an eye. Geralt can't imagine <em>anyone</em> going to bat for that disaster, but Emhyr - the continent's biggest perfectionist - stood up for it to the point of using <em>various machinations</em> to get it to happen. </p>
<p>Emhyr always told Geralt that he supported the book, he believed in Geralt's ability to execute it, and he thought Geralt's cryptid lore expertise would carry the book concept through to a good final product. Emhyr told Geralt he had faith in the book, and in Geralt. And Geralt knew Emhyr really believed all that, because Emhyr doesn't flatter people or bullshit people and wouldn't express even a hint of approval for something he didn't truly approve of. Even with that, though, it seems unthinkable that Emhyr would be willing to lower himself to the point of telling anyone - let alone Tissaia de Vries, Editor-in-Chief of Fairy Light Press - that he thought that jumble of misspelled words and misplaced eagerness had value. But Emhyr did the unthinkable, for Geralt. Because he wanted to support Geralt's dreams, his finances, his aspirations, his interests, his hopes, and his future. He wanted Geralt to be happy. </p>
<p>"The three of us, Ciri, and Emhyr. For better or worse, it took all of us. We're all the book," Geralt says. "And now The Caretaker is part of it too. So... thanks. For doing Chapter 13, for supporting me, and for being the book." </p>
<p>"Dettlaff and I will always support you. During the book, aside from the book, and after the book." Regis chuckles, then adds, "Unfortunately, our darling Geralt, you are stuck with us for as long as you'll have us, and as much as you want us."</p>
<p>Geralt wishes that were true. He does. He'd have the couple for as long as they would keep him, and he'd have them entirely. He'd be <em>their</em> dearest Geralt. Regis and Dettlaff say things like that, things about having each other and being together, because they don't know how Geralt feels about them. If they knew the way Geralt wants them, they wouldn't tell him that he could have what he wants. If they knew the way Geralt wants to be theirs, they wouldn't call him <em>ours</em>. Dettlaff and Regis are willing to give Geralt what he wants because they don't know what it is. And they give him pieces of it, unknowingly, because they don't know what those pieces mean to him. If Dettlaff and Regis found out what Geralt wants, figured out what they're unknowingly giving him, then Geralt would have to see what stops. Which words they stop saying, which promises they stop making, which offers they stop extending, which touches they stop giving. Geralt would have to discover, little by little, with each omission, all of the things they aren't willing to give him. And that would hurt so much more than them never knowing at all. </p>
<p>"I should head home to write," Geralt says, his grip loosening on his empty cup. "If we're doing Chapter 13, I need to get started on that. The quicker I get it written and pass it along to you, the less crunched we'll all be." </p>
<p>"Are you feeling well?" Dettlaff asks, a hint of concern in his deep voice. </p>
<p>"Brew helped a lot. Can't say I'd drink it for the taste - sorry, Regis - but it helped." Geralt's not lying, because the brew did help. He'd be lying if he said he was feeling well, or that he didn't need more of that resting and recuperating time, so he doesn't say either of those things. But he doesn't need any more time to dwell on impossible fantasies. Geralt feels cold again as soon as he slips out from under the warm knit blanket, and bundles up tighter in the cardigan sweater. Regis takes the cup from Geralt's hand, and his fingers feel empty. Getting up from the sofa, leaving the warmth of Dettlaff and Regis behind, feels like Geralt is stepping out of a bubble. He has a knack for making happy places with people he likes into bubbles. </p>
<p>Geralt tries not to wrap his arms around himself and shiver as he trudges towards the front door. His boots are sitting neatly by it, and his zip-up hoodie is hanging from a coat hook. He stuffs his feet into his boots and lets the shoelaces hang free, because he doesn't feel like bending over or down to tie them. They're currently laced loosely enough that he'll be shuffling along, but he won't trip over the ends of the strings. Geralt's starting to reach for the hoodie when it occurs to him that he probably shouldn't steal any more of Dettlaff's clothes than strictly necessary, which means giving the sweater back. He really doesn't want to take off the sweater. </p>
<p>"Keep that on. Your jacket won't be anywhere near warm enough without it," Regis says from behind Geralt, holding the shoulders of the sweater in place when Geralt reluctantly starts to shrug out of them. Dettlaff has also joined them, and he retrieves Geralt's hoodie from the coat hook, helping him to pull it on and zip it up. Regis slips the new pair of knit gloves onto each of Geralt's hands once they're through the sleeves. Geralt stands there stiffly, feeling like a snowman being put into its outfit by its builders, but a melting snowman. Having Dettlaff and Regis dress him like this feels almost as intimate as it would if they were undressing him. A scarf wraps around Geralt's neck next, and he looks down to see Regis's green plaid scarf. "There. Not as warm as your usual, and certainly not as warm as a real coat, but it should help." </p>
<p>"Thanks," Geralt mumbles, resisting the urge to bury his suddenly flushed-feeling face in the scarf. "I'll give it back to you the next time I see you." </p>
<p>"It's alright if you don't," Regis says, with a soft smile, and adjusts the scarf so it covers Geralt's entire neck and chin. He smooths the ends down on Geralt's front, and then his hands linger while adjusting the edges over his chest. He looks at them like he enjoys seeing them there, like it makes him happy to see his scarf on Geralt. Finally, he gives Geralt's shoulder a little pat. "As long as you promise to wear it, I won't mind if you keep it." </p>
<p>"Will you be alright getting back to your car?" Dettlaff asks, his hand resting on that place on Geralt's back that makes Geralt's waist feel small. </p>
<p>"It's not too far. I'll be fine," Geralt replies. He's definitely not going to be fine, since he remembers it being a long walk from the area he parked in and he was way too drunk to keep track of how they got here, but he'll figure it out. He might wander for a bit, because he doesn't know North Daevon well and he still can't use the map on his phone despite how many times Ciri has tried to teach him while sighing loudly about how it's <em>not that difficult, Geralt, are you forty-five years old or eighty-five</em>, but he'll make it to his truck eventually. His knee will probably be mad at him by the time he gets there, but it's always mad at him these days. Geralt's tempted to hang around by the door for a while, come up with some excuse to dawdle or get Regis talking since that'll stick the three of them there for an hour and it'll look like it's not his fault, but he knows he needs to go. "Thanks. For everything. And sorry. For everything." </p>
<p>"No thanks needed, no apologies needed, and please visit again soon," Regis says. He opens the front door, and the three of them all shiver at the gust of cold air that rushes in. The green scarf flaps a little on Geralt's chest, and Regis hurries to smooth it back down. Once he gets it secured in place, Regis hesitates for a moment before wrapping Geralt in a hug. Geralt blinks in surprise, and then blinks again when Dettlaff hugs him from behind. He doesn't know what's happening, and he doesn't know why it's happening, but he does know he wants it to keep happening forever. He closes his eyes and lets himself be held for a bit. He needs to leave, and he knows he can't have what he wants, but he can let himself believe just one more time that love doesn't have to hurt for him. </p>
<p>"Be safe," Dettlaff says, when the couple releases Geralt. "And do visit soon." </p>
<p>Geralt shuffles out the front door of the apartment in a daze, numbly wondering why it's so cold and why he's getting buffeted by gusts of wind indoors that have him clutching the scarf to his chest to keep it from flapping. He shuffles to the elevator, missing the <em>Broken heating/air system, sorry for the inconvenience - Maintenance</em> sign when the dinging of the bell before the doors open nudges loose a suppressed memory of a pigeon flying directly into his drunk face and yelling at him somewhere between this same elevator and the pub. He shuffles through the lobby, keeping his eyes on the dark blue carpeted floor beneath his improperly laced boots in case there's anyone around who might recognize him from his ungraceful arrival last night. He shuffles out the front door of the building, wanting to put distance between himself and everything that happened there just as much as he wants to run back inside and tell Dettlaff and Regis that he doesn't know where his truck is and he doesn't feel well and he wants to stay on their sofa under the warm wool blanket waiting to hear the sound of the clock tower bell again. </p>
<p>But Geralt can't go back. Not now, and not until the couple invites him over for another round of blueberry pancakes, even though they welcomed him to stop by for breakfast any time he wants. If Geralt actually took them up on that, he'd be over there all the time. They might've said they want to see him as much as he'd want to see them, but that's because they don't know how much Geralt wants to see them. It's sad, how Dettlaff and Regis keep offering more and more to Geralt because they don't realize how much he would take. So Geralt can't take as much as he wants to, because then they'll figure it out and withdraw those offers. Geralt would rather leave them untouched on the table than have them taken off it entirely. </p>
<p>Geralt shuffles a few inches onto the pavement outside the building, looks up to try to find a street sign, gets smacked in the light-sensitive cat eyes by the glare of the sun, and immediately falls flat on his face. So much for not tripping on his shoelaces.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Geralt snaps into awareness in a burst of terror. He's gasping, his lungs too shallow for the breath he needs, but he shouldn't be breathing. He needs to stop breathing. He needs to stop breathing, stop moving, stop his heart from beating, because he doesn't know what the thing filling his bones with ice is but it's there and it's terrible and he doesn't want it to notice him or it will - he doesn't know, because he doesn't know what it is, but it - it's a threat, and he doesn't want to bring attention to himself. He needs to stop breathing, but he can't keep himself from breathing even though he can't breathe enough. He needs to stop moving, but he can't keep himself from shaking. It's dark around Geralt and he doesn't know where he is, doesn't know why the darkness seems like a veil there's light on the other side of, or what's on the other side. He doesn't know if the menacing thing is here or on the other side of the veil. He doesn't know anything. He doesn't know how to escape, or stay, how to move, or hold still, and Geralt might die because he doesn't know anything.</p>
<p>"Geralt? Geralt, wake up. Geralt, it's Ciri."</p>
<p>Ciri. Ciri is here. Ciri is lost in the darkness with Geralt, or on the other side of the veil - her voice sounds like it's on the other side - and that means Ciri is where the threat is. Ciri is in danger. Geralt just saw Ciri's corpse frozen in a block of ice in the woods, a knife uselessly clutched in her hand, but she's here. She must have thawed, must have survived, but now she's here, and she's in danger. Geralt needs to protect her, his <em>daughter</em>, he can't let her be hurt but he doesn't know how to save her - </p>
<p>"Ciri," Geralt cries out, jerking bolt upright because he needs to get to her. The veil of darkness falls away, leaving him in a blinding haze of light, and he looks around frantically at nothing. It makes Geralt's head throb, and he clutches at it while his eyes pop and pulse until he can see again. He sees Ciri. He reaches out to her. "Ciri!"</p>
<p>"It's alright, Geralt, I'm here. I'm here," Ciri says, and that's the problem, she's here where she could be hurt. Ciri walks over to where Geralt is sitting, and he surges up and pulls her into a hug, holding tightly onto her. He can't take her to safety when he doesn't know where safety is, but maybe he can shield her with his shaking body, keep her alive the same way he kept Calanthe alive. Ciri yelps, toppling onto Geralt's outstretched legs, and Geralt has the horrible realization that <em>he</em> is the threat, <em>he</em> is the thing hurting Ciri. He immediately lets her go, looking in horror into her startled bright green eyes. His lungs are still too small. Ciri's eyes soften into calm and concern, and she wraps her arms around Geralt and pulls his face against her shoulder. "Geralt, we're safe. We're at home, in our living room. You were having a nightmare. It's not real." </p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head, because he needs to get Ciri to understand, he needs - to listen to her. He smells her lilac shampoo, and hears the rapid beating of her heart, and becomes aware of their living room sofa beneath him. He looks over Ciri's shoulder and sees the window behind her, the shadowy shapes of the trees canopying their little house on the top of a hill looming out of the blackness of the mid-March night. Geralt slowly pulls back, looking around, and sees a few more trappings of home: the black leather armchair Ciri pulled in front of the large flatscreen TV so she can watch hockey or soccer while video chatting with Cerys - both gifts from Emhyr - and one of her green Ard Carraigh Imperial Academy hoodies draped over the back of it. The open doorway leading to their dark and cramped kitchen with the beat-up cabinets and peeling baseboards, and the closed door leading out to the balcony porch that encircles the front half of the house. A large poster of Dettlaff's Cute Endrega drawing that Ciri insisted on printing in her school's art lab and framing to hang on the living room wall after seeing the original printout taped up in Geralt's home office and falling in love with it. And Ciri's worried face. </p>
<p>"Fuck. Ciri, I'm sorry. I - shit, I hurt you - Ciri, I'm so sorry -" Geralt looks Ciri over frantically, making sure he didn't bruise or break or sprain anything on her thin and fragile body, sick with worry and guilt at the thought that he scared and hurt his <em>daughter</em>, his little girl, fuck, <em>he</em> was the threat - </p>
<p>"You didn't hurt me, Geralt. You startled me, but you didn't hurt me with a <em>hug</em>. I'm not that breakable, don't insult me." Ciri bops Geralt on the top of his head, the way she does when she's joking, but her heart is still racing.</p>
<p>"I could've, though. I could've really hurt you. Ciri, I <em>told</em> you, don't come near me when I'm having a nightmare." Geralt frowns. Then he takes a deep breath, his lungs finally big enough to, and looks away at the floor in shame. It's not Ciri's fault. He told her not to get close to him while he was asleep, but he'd never said anything about staying away from him after he wakes up. Usually the danger is over once he wakes up, but this time he was too panicked at the thought of his daughter being within range of the unspecified threat. That's Geralt's problem, and he can't take it out on her, can't let himself be made irrational by the lingering fear that still has him trembling. "Sorry. Not your fault. Know you wanted to help. Sorry for all the - must've caught you off guard." </p>
<p>"Sleeping on the sofa is bad for your back. Take your old man naps in your bed," Ciri scolds. Geralt slumps, because she's right. His back is going to be very angry at him for this. He didn't mean to fall asleep, though. He's been pulling such long hours, what with the final stages of the book and the unexpected chapter on The Caretaker, that sitting down briefly on the comfortable sofa must've been enough to pull him under. Emhyr replacing all their furniture might've been an asshole move, but he replaced it with some really good furniture. Ciri stays where she's sitting on Geralt's stretched out legs, trying to sort through the mess his hair has turned into. "Are you having nightmares again? I thought those had stopped." </p>
<p>"Just had one now," Geralt says, and shrugs. He's not lying to Ciri, exactly, but he's picking his words in a way that might lead her to conclude something besides the truth. He doesn't want to lie to Ciri, not about yet another thing, because he really hates how much he lies to her. But the thing is, Geralt only lies to Ciri when it'll be easier for her not to know the truth. This would be one of those times it'd be justified. If she knows the truth about his nightmares, that they happen every night and they never truly stopped, she'll worry. He doesn't want her to worry. He certainly never wanted her to see him like this, not when it's been several years since she's had to witness him in this state. Geralt's voice is rough, his throat is dry, and he feels like coughing. He clears his throat hard, even though it makes Ciri wrinkle her nose. "Probably the book stress." </p>
<p>"Your deadline is close, isn't it?" Ciri gives Geralt another squeezing hug, then hops off his legs and pulls over a cushioned ottoman to sit on instead. Geralt nods. About two months away. It should feel good, being in the home stretch, but instead everything feels rushed and everything is stacking up and he's nervous to see the final product and is getting increasingly more concerned he's going to feel empty once this whole thing is over. It's a lot. Too much. Ciri nods. She says, soft and sympathetic, "You've seemed really down lately." </p>
<p>Geralt is. He's really down. He can admit it. The stress is crushing him, his insecurities are crushing him, his inadequacies are crushing him, and the nightmares are crushing him. Knowing he shouldn't even be writing his book is crushing him. Geralt used to be able to buckle down for hours at a time and turn out a decent amount of work, pushing past the parts that sounded stupid or awkward or choppy, but now he keeps stopping to muddle through his thoughts when something sounds bad. And so much of Geralt's drafts sounds bad. He'll pause and spend several minutes staring at crossed out lines on the notebook page before feeling like he's in the right place to start scribbling again, or frown at the computer screen and wonder if he should rewrite the whole draft before he can start pecking away at the keys again. He starts and stops and stretches the writing process out until he's stuck at his desk way too late into the night and then he drags himself to bed and has nightmares. </p>
<p>Geralt used to keep going because he knew Regis would help him fix his writing, reminding himself that if someone wanted to publish it then there had to be <em>something</em> worth fixing, but now that he knows nobody wanted to publish it he's struggling to identify what that thing worth fixing could be. Even if the concept for <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> is a good idea on its own - and he'll never know, because it never got to stand on its own - nothing says Geralt should be the one to write it. Someone else, a much better writer, could write this weird monster book. There are other people who know things about cryptids. It doesn't have to be Geralt. But it is, because of Emhyr. </p>
<p>And everything, as usual, keeps coming back to Emhyr. The empty space in Geralt's life where Emhyr used to be is also crushing him. They haven't spoken in the two months since their fight. Not even to argue. Emhyr hasn't made any one-sided decisions that would lead Geralt to call him and yell at him, and they haven't had any joint decisions to make. Geralt doesn't know if that means Emhyr got the message about his meddling, or if he's biding his time until the next thing he springs on them, or if he's just being more subtle about whatever he's doing. The book incident made it clear that Emhyr's more than capable of executing large-scale manipulations without his chess pieces knowing about it. Either way, Geralt and Emhyr haven't even passed messages to each other through Ciri or Morvran. It's been complete radio silence, in both directions. </p>
<p>Still, Geralt thinks about Emhyr all the time. He thinks about Emhyr when he sees the furniture or the garage or the satellite dish or the clothes in the back of his closet. He thinks about Emhyr when Ciri makes a facial expression that resembles his, uses an expression he uses, says something about the calendar, or mentions their assistant. He thinks about Emhyr when he puts on his coat or notices the high speed of the internet or wonders how his greenhouse garden is doing. He thinks about Emhyr when he wakes up from a nightmare alone in the dark and he's trembling to pieces and sobbing for air and scared. He thinks about Emhyr when he feels the desire to be held or fucked or dominated or cared for or kissed. He thinks about Emhyr when he curses himself for not being able to bring himself to sell that 24-karat gold sun pendant necklace and make some money off their shitty breakup. Geralt thinks about Emhyr so much, and he thinks about why he thinks about Emhyr so much, and he thinks about why he can't stop thinking about Emhyr so much. And then he thinks about how still, after everything, he's so fucking in love with Emhyr. Geralt's so fucking in love with Emhyr that the empty space in his life that Emhyr used to fill has burrowed into his body, turned into a black hole in his chest that's sucking him into it and tearing him apart. </p>
<p>But Geralt can't tell Ciri that. He hates that he didn't hide all of it well enough, the stress and the inadequacies and the nightmares and the emptiness, that she can see how much he's struggling. He tried to hide it, tried so hard, but he failed. He can't do anything well enough. Trying and failing, over and over, is what Geralt does. He can't put any more of his mess on his daughter than he already has, can't make her see more than what's already slipped through the cracks in his weak and crumbling facade. So Geralt says, "A lot going on." </p>
<p>"Well, I have something to tell you," Ciri says. She crosses her legs on the ottoman, settling comfortably on the cushion. "It's about the Bruxa of Corvo Bianco. You probably wrote about her in your book, but since you won't show me your book, I don't know that. In fact, maybe you forgot everything about her. Just in case, I'll tell you about her. The Bruxa of Corvo Bianco takes the form of a long-haired naked woman with sharp claws, and has an awful piercing scream and the ability to turn invisible. She's been spotted in various locations around the Sansretour Valley, but mostly around the Corvo Bianco Vineyard estate, leading to theories that she lives somewhere on or near it - hence the name. She's said to be behind the disappearance of corpses or pieces of corpses in Toussaint. Here's a story about her: One day, on a beautiful summer Sansretour afternoon, a vineyard worker at Corvo Bianco heard a horrible scream. He followed it to the estate's morgue, and then - there she was! A naked woman with long claws, examining the corpse of a recently murdered knight. As the worker watched, frozen in terror, the Bruxa picked up a large pale hand with long nails that was wearing a strange ring. It wasn't part of the knight's corpse, and, in fact, it looked like it might not have even been a human's hand. The worker gasped, and the Bruxa whirled around, looking directly at him - and then unleashed a scream that could be heard all across the estate! He fell unconscious, and when he awoke, there was no trace of the Bruxa. To this day, he doesn't know whose hand she took, where it came from, or where she went." </p>
<p>Geralt feels himself getting choked up, listening to Ciri tell him the cryptid story. He remembers sitting with his young daughter, just like this, telling her about monsters to soothe her after her nightmares. And now, Ciri's doing the same for him. She really has grown up. Ciri's voice is animated as she waves her hands around, gesturing and widening her eyes right before dramatic pauses. She reminds Geralt of that old woman whose porch he used to sit on as a child, the one who introduced him to cryptid stories. Ciri's delivery is jolting, the details are sharp, and the flow of the story is perfect. Geralt's impressed, really impressed, at how good she's gotten at storytelling. By the end of the Bruxa of Corvo Bianco tale, Geralt has stopped shaking. He's breathing easier. He's not scared anymore. He has a lump in his throat and something behind his eyes is stinging a bit, but he's alright. He's home, with Ciri, this is real, and everything is alright. </p>
<p>"So, that's the Bruxa of Corvo Bianco," Ciri says, finishing her retelling and leaning back on the ottoman. "What did you think of the story?" </p>
<p>Geralt lets a long pause elapse, filling it by giving Ciri an appraising look like he's assessing the quality of her storytelling. He makes an exaggerated thinking expression, rubbing the unkempt beard covering his chin. Then, finally, when he thinks his voice will be completely steady and not at all choked up, Geralt says, "Good. Really well told. Had me terrified, a few times. I think you should've written the book for me. Got something about the Bruxa in there, but your version was better." </p>
<p>"I'm sure that's not true," Ciri says, even though she doesn't make the slightest attempt to hide how pleased she is by the praise. "I think you're lying to me. And the only way to prove you're not lying to me is to show me your book." </p>
<p>"Not a chance." Geralt shakes his head. Ciri pouts, immediately shifting from preening cryptid lore expert to sad raccoon, and Geralt would probably break and give her a few sentences if he wasn't so committed to his book-hiding. He's been keeping <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> squirreled away from Ciri for ten months, and he's certainly not going to give in to her pleading eyes now. Not just because he's so proud of her and her Bruxa tale that he'd probably cry, if crying was a thing he did. "You know you're getting an advance copy. First one off the presses. Hold on a little longer, okay?" </p>
<p>"Hold on longer, he says, as he cruelly tells his supportive and adoring daughter that he doesn't love her." Ciri frowns and huffs, crossing her arms. "You're impossible, Geralt." </p>
<p>"Runs in the family," Geralt says, indicating Ciri's sulky demeanor. She leans over to bop him on top of the head again, and he can admit he deserves it. He smiles, giving her a very light tap in the same place. "You've got plenty to keep you busy until the book comes out. Got your eyes glued to hockey and your phone an awful lot. Things going good with Cerys?" </p>
<p>"As good as anything can go with a Skelliger who likes the worst possible hockey teams, claims she's better than me at swordfighting, and thinks it's romantic to tell the girl she tripped during a soccer game that she'll take me out to dinner to make up for it instead of apologizing." Ciri rolls her eyes, but she's clearly hiding a smile. "She <em>had</em> to be all beautiful and smart and fun to argue with, plus she's so competitive and she hit a man in the face with his own shoe for saying something creepy about my teammate's rear end. Was I supposed to just <em>not</em> like her? Geralt, it is impossible to know peace when there are girls like Cerys in this world." </p>
<p>"I can imagine," Geralt says. He wasn't surprised when he found out that he and Ciri are into the same kind of women: intelligent, confident, feisty, gorgeous, and capable of kicking a grown man's ass. Those are all qualities that sent Geralt tumbling head over heels for Yennefer, very literally. He certainly didn't know a moment of peace after that breathtaking purple-eyed menace collapsed a building around him - he stopped by her laboratory to measure it for new metal surfaces, right when the mind control device she was working on started malfunctioning - and she propositioned him for sex right there amidst the rubble. Geralt fell in love with Yennefer when, in the middle of riding him on the one surviving table in a somewhat-intact corner of the laboratory, she informed him that the building collapse was a temporary setback and she fully intended to continue using mad science to acquire unlimited power. They're still friends, and Geralt would still be more than happy to let Yennefer step on him or peg him. But the fact remains that Yennefer shattered Geralt's heart into tiny little bits. "Cerys sounds perfect for you. She's not gonna break your heart, right?" </p>
<p>"I wouldn't let her," Ciri says, confidently. Then she smiles openly, her eyes growing soft. "She wouldn't anyway. She's very chivalrous. Well, in her own way. She asked me to be her girlfriend by double dog daring me to sail out to Spikeroog with her on the last day of my trip to Skellige and then giving me a bouquet of lilacs in front of Melusine's caves, so, there's that." </p>
<p>"Yep. Perfect for you." Geralt finds himself smiling along with Ciri. Cerys's dating-proposal is the most romantic thing he's heard in a long time, since it caters perfectly to Ciri's particular brand of eeriness, danger-seeking, and cryptid-loving. The effort is impressive, too. Geralt's still concerned about Ciri getting hurt, because he's seen her crushed by a breakup before and he knows firsthand what a badass woman can do to someone's heart, but he lets go of the worry. Ciri's a badass woman herself, and she can handle whatever turns this relationship takes. Geralt has a feeling they're going to be good turns. A fiery person who shares Ciri's passions for sports and monsters and beating up men who deserve it is probably the best match his headstrong and somewhat intimidating daughter could have. "Can't wait to meet Cerys. You two should teach me what hockey stuff is called, when she comes to visit you in a couple days. I watched a Knights game at a pub a while back and I liked it. Don't remember much after the first goal, though." </p>
<p>"I tell you not to get sloppy drunk at family dinners and embarrass yourself in front of Papa, so you get sloppy drunk at a pub and embarrass yourself in front of strangers. That's not an improvement, Geralt." Ciri shakes her head, trying to give Geralt the disdainful look he gets from her Papa when he gets sloppy drunk at family dinners, but luckily she's in too good of a mood to actually achieve an Emhyr resemblance. Geralt doesn't think he could deal with getting that man's mannerisms turned on him right now. Ciri lands on the same expression Geralt probably got from those strangers when he got sloppy drunk at the pub - not that he'd remember. He doesn't tell her he also embarrassed himself in front of his friends too. "Well, Cerys is looking forward to meeting you too. And reading your book, especially the chapter on Melusine. I know, I know, I'm not allowed to give anyone spoilers - but Cerys specifically asked if Melusine  was in the book, and I knew you wouldn't want me to lie to my girlfriend because you are an ethical person and a good role model who won't be upset about me giving spoilers to my girlfriend for ethical reasons. Cerys agrees with me that you should show me the book now." </p>
<p>"Of course she agrees with you. She's your girlfriend." Geralt shakes his head, his lips quirked up at the corner. </p>
<p>Ciri doesn't look nearly as amused. She gives Geralt a nearly lethal combination of sad raccoon eyes and petulant pouting. "She agrees with me because she loves me. And you love me. So you should also agree with me." </p>
<p>The logic isn't sound, but at least it's internally consistent. Geralt knows Ciri can do a lot better than that, given all the fancy logic and rhetoric classes she takes at her fancy school, but she doesn't need to. She has a point about Geralt loving her, and always has. So Geralt decides it's time to admit the real reason he hasn't shown Ciri anything he's written, and won't be doing so until the book is totally done. He's been joking with her for almost a year, hoping he can sidestep her requests for long enough that she won't find out he's a bad writer. If she doesn't see his writing until it's all fixed up in its final form, she'll never guess that it doesn't sound anything like what will be printed in <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>. Geralt doesn't want Ciri to be disappointed, both in his writing and in him, by finding out he can't actually write for shit. But Geralt's already a far bigger disappointment than Ciri could imagine, and hiding the fact that he shouldn't be writing this book has made it seem like not as big of a deal that he's writing it badly. </p>
<p>"I want the book to be perfect when you see it," Geralt says, looking out the window at the vague shapes of trees in the night so he doesn't have to see Ciri's sad face. His neck cracks when he turns his head to do it, because sleeping on sofas is yet another thing he's too old for. "Won't be perfect, I know. Nothing can be. But it'll be closer. And - I'm gonna be honest, Ciri. My drafts are shit. They're bad. So bad that it's not fair to the paper I write them on. Regis is the only reason they're readable, let alone good. I want the book to be as good as it can be, when you see it. Because I love you." </p>
<p>"Oh, Geralt. You idiot." Ciri's voice is unreadable. Geralt turns to her, scared to see on her face what kind of idiot she thinks he is - and then finds her smiling. "You know I'll love your book no matter how bad it is. If it's really terrible, I'll make fun of it, but fondly. Regis and Dettlaff won't let it be terrible, so you don't have to worry about that. But even if it's the worst book I've ever read, I'll love it anyway. I'll be proud of you just for writing an entire book and finishing it, regardless of quality or anything else." </p>
<p>"Anything else?" Geralt hesitates. He wants to believe that's true, badly, but he knows Ciri probably thinks that because she couldn't guess that <em>anything else</em> might include the whole foundation of the opportunity. It's been eating him up, the way he's been constantly thinking about how disappointed she'd be about the fact that he doesn't deserve the book in the first place. And he shouldn't say anything, because Ciri is so smart and perceptive that she might guess a hypothetical isn't actually a hypothetical, but this is his chance to find out whether Ciri would lose all faith in him. If she guesses, it'll be out in the open, and he'll know for sure. So Geralt says, "Would you still be proud of me if the book's concept was so stupid that nobody, readers or editors or illustrators, wanted to read it? Or if the publisher looked at the final copy and regretted agreeing to print it? Or if nobody wanted the book to exist but a golden ticket floated down from the sky that said <em>Congratulations, whoever catches this ticket gets to write a book</em> so the world was stuck with it?" </p>
<p>"Yes, yes, and yes. I said <em>anything else</em>, Geralt. That means anything else." Ciri rolls her eyes. "The premise of those hypotheticals is completely ridiculous anyway, because they all involve me not supporting your book, which simply wouldn't happen. I am  included in <em>readers</em>, and I want to read it. I am included in <em>the world</em>, and I want it to exist. Stupid concept, publisher regret, golden ticket, I wouldn't care. You are writing an entire book, Geralt, and you are putting it out there for people to read. I am proud of you. How could I not be proud of you?" </p>
<p>Geralt turns on the sofa and reaches his arms out to Ciri for a hug. She crawls across the ottoman towards the sofa, leaning into the hug before hopping over and flopping pointedly onto his legs in a mimicry of how he yanked her down after waking up from his nightmare. This time, though, she carefully avoids Geralt's painful right knee. Geralt clings to Ciri, burying his face in her neck and squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to keep his breath from hitching. Knowing Ciri would still be proud of him given the circumstances is overwhelming. He'd been so worried, so torn up, so beaten down, over the thought that Ciri would be disappointed and she'd think he wasn't worth her pride. But Geralt should've known his daughter is more supportive than that, and more loving than that. He shouldn't have been so doubtful of her, or thought so little of her capacity to be proud of her dad. Ciri wanted the book to be written, she wanted Geralt to write it, Geralt wrote it, and that's what matters to her. Geralt should've known better. He shouldn't have projected all his insecurities onto Ciri, shouldn't have presumed he could read her mind, because it wasn't fair to Ciri for Geralt to use her as a weapon against himself. But Geralt did it, and he needs to stop doing it. Ciri's told him what she thinks, and he needs to respect that. </p>
<p>"Thanks, Ciri." Geralt allows his voice to come out a little shaky this time. He's getting soft in his old age, but he's always been soft for his daughter. If she wants to tease him for getting dangerously close to crying on her, he'll take it. Geralt made her happy-cry a few months ago, so it's only fair that she gets to do the same thing to him. "Thanks." </p>
<p>They sit there for a while, Geralt clinging to Ciri and Ciri clinging back. Geralt feels like a heavy dark haze has been lifted off him, knowing he's not one step away from losing his daughter's approval forever. Their little mountain hill house is quiet aside from the low hum of the heater keeping the living room pleasantly warm. The sofa is comfortable enough that Geralt could probably fall asleep on it again, if Ciri and his spine wouldn't both scold him for it. Eventually, the soft tickle of Ciri's lilac-scented hair on Geralt's face gets him dangerously close to sneezing, so he lets go of her and pulls away from the hug before that can happen. She really wouldn't like that. Ciri messes up Geralt's bun the same way he always unintentionally messes up hers, even though it's plenty messed up from all the thrashing around on the sofa he was presumably doing, and he smiles. Geralt's smiles are very few and far between these days, so it feels nice to smile. </p>
<p>"If you want to thank me, you could feed me," Ciri says. She stretches her arms up, twisting a little, and Geralt quickly sticks out his hand to make sure she doesn't fall off the edge of the sofa. She doesn't, but his dad instincts keep his hand hovering in the air near the treacherous edge anyway. Ciri didn't survive all the death-prompted custody changes and soccer games and cross-Continental trips and injuries and various dangers she's been through - including, apparently, sailing out to Melusine's caves on Spikeroog, which Geralt can personally attest are terrifying - only to break her neck by toppling off living room furniture. "It's late, I came home from an exhausting soccer practice to find you whimpering and flailing around on the sofa, and then you snatched me up and made me tell you a monster story and reassure you about your book. That is all very tiring, Geralt. I deserve a caramel apple cake, but I'll settle for regular food." </p>
<p>"We got regular food around here somewhere, I think. At least, I hope so." Geralt waits until Ciri's on her feet on solid ground before twisting around to stretch himself, cracking several things in his back. He winces at a particularly enthusiastic popping noise, then squirms into a standing position. His knee is even stiffer than his neck, and he doesn't bother trying not to limp as he follows Ciri into the kitchen. It's getting harder and harder not to limp, these days, and he'll be happy when the cold weather's over. He likes it, but his joints sure don't, and that one in particular. Geralt's trying not to consider the possibility that the pain and stiffness won't wear off as much as he's hoping when the weather gets warm again. </p>
<p>The kitchen is the most run-down part of their house, in a way that feels homey and lived-in but also makes Geralt think he wouldn't be too upset if Emhyr decided to renovate it. It's small, the ceiling inexplicably lower in there than the rest of the house, with the little kitchen table and chairs taking up most of the space that isn't already filled with appliances or cabinets. The fading wood cabinets are worn and battered, the microwave and refrigerator are both old enough to make awful buzzing sounds when used or ignored respectively, and the sink faces a window so tiny that it's fully blocked by a single tree branch. Geralt definitely wouldn't complain about Emhyr putting in a dishwasher, at least. The cracked floor tiles have an outdated kitschy floral pattern, which is as outdated as the pale green wall paint that Geralt keeps forgetting to refresh. It's even more vintage-looking than their bathroom, which is saying something. The kitchen alone leaves Geralt in wonder that Ciri chooses to live in an Emhyr-dubbed "hovel" in the middle of nowhere when she could be comfortably living in her Papa's spotless and perfectly-maintained mansion surrounded by other mansions with pools and manicured lawns. </p>
<p>"The good news is, we do have regular food," Ciri says from halfway inside the refrigerator. "The bad news is, it's: a ham sandwich, an apple, three protein bars, a bag of frozen strawberries, and a box of cereal that you put in the fridge." </p>
<p>"Ham sandwich and apple are all yours," Geralt says. He eases himself down into a chair at the kitchen table, sitting down hard at the end when his knee gives out from the extra strain. Throughout the process he makes a few of the groaning dad noises Ciri usually laughs at, then makes one more as he settles in to catch his bearings and rest his aching body. Ciri doesn't laugh this time, but she's probably focused on the  pitiful selection of food. "Didn't mention milk. Guessing that means water in the cold cereal?" </p>
<p>"Or tea, if you want to put in more effort." Ciri emerges from the fridge, the cereal box squeezed in the crook of her arm and the apple and ham sandwich plate in each hand. She shuts the fridge with her foot, then sets their patchwork dinner out on the counter. "It would heat your frozen cereal up. The box was in The Arctic Wasteland, so you'll be lucky if it's not filled with ice." </p>
<p>"Frozen is fine with me." Geralt shrugs. The Arctic Wasteland is what Ciri calls the back of the ancient fridge, which gets cold enough to function as a second freezer; Geralt knows he must've been really tired if he not only put a cereal box in the fridge, but in the area that freezer-burns everything that goes into it. Geralt feels bad for making Ciri deal with the food, but now that he's sitting down, he can tell he'll have trouble getting back up. Usually the rest of his body isn't this bad, just his knee, but when he doesn't sleep and it's cold out and he aggravates it then his whole system pays the price. Ciri teases him about aging, about his dad noises and being an <em>old man</em>, but she knows Geralt's not actually old. Geralt thinks she's probably coming to understand the same thing he has, which is that Geralt's body is just showing the signs of everything it went through while he was a bodyguard, a metalworker, and a teenage runaway. "I'll take some cold cereal with water. And I'll go to the grocery tomorrow, I promise." </p>
<p>"You'll stay home and work on your book tomorrow. And after that, you'll rest so you don't have more stress nightmares. I'll have Morvran order groceries and get them delivered." Ciri's voice is firm enough that Geralt doesn't protest. He can't tell her he'll have nightmares one way or another, and while he doesn't like his teenage daughter ordering him to stay in his house while her assistant handles everything, he won't have to deal with the way the closest grocery store has rearranged all the aisles and now Geralt doesn't know where anything is. Geralt also doesn't like that he's burdening Ciri, that she's the one taking care of him when it should be the other way around, but it's no use apologizing for that when she'll just sigh loudly and roll her eyes and tell him that he's <em>not a burden, Geralt, you are high maintenance but I am a kind and caring daughter so don't make that kicked puppy face while I am showing my love for you</em>. Geralt feels bad anyway. </p>
<p>They're both quiet as Ciri washes her apple and puts it on the ham sandwich plate, then fills a bowl with icy cereal and warm water for Geralt. Ciri puts both dishes on the kitchen table, which is barely two steps from the counter, then sits down and picks up her sandwich. Geralt looks down at the bowl, the soggy bran flakes missing the utensil required to eat it, and prepares to creak to his feet to shuffle over to the utensil drawer and get one. Ciri follows Geralt's eyes and immediately gets up before he can, retrieving a spoon and sticking it into the bowl without comment. Geralt mumbles a <em>thanks Ciri</em> to her and picks up the spoon, still not liking that she has to do simple things for him but appreciating that she does. Ciri waves off the thanks, ripping a giant chunk out of the sandwich with her teeth and chewing it like a hamster. Geralt lets out a little huff of amusement, glad to see that despite Ciri having an assistant and a standing invitation to live at a mansion, she's kept plenty of the unrefined habits she learned from him. </p>
<p>Neither of them makes conversation as they eat, since Ciri must be starving after soccer practice and Geralt is a lot hungrier than he realized. Not that the food itself has anything to do with it. Ciri chomps her way through her apple as Geralt scoops up his cereal mush with increasing reluctance, using the unpleasant texture of the flavorless bran flakes as a reminder to keep their house stocked with groceries and not put any of them in The Arctic Wasteland. When they're done, they sit in silence aside from the tree branch getting shaken by the wind and tapping on the tiny window above the sink. </p>
<p>"Thank you for letting Cerys stay at our house," Ciri says, after a while. "It means a lot to us, getting to spend time together in person. We're going to be long-distance after we graduate from secondary school too, and it won't be easy to see each other in person then either. Cerys is going to be a professional soccer player for the Skellige Seafarers, so she'll be traveling all over the Continent aside from her off-season. I'll be at university, too busy to travel much, and I'll probably have jobs or internships during summer breaks... we can video chat and text all the time, but we may only get to see each other a few times a year. We're doing very well long-distance, and we're fine with continuing that way, but it means close-distance time together is even more special." </p>
<p>It sounds too familiar to Geralt. The partner traveling all over the Continent for a job, seeing each other only a few times a year, talking mostly long-distance. And Geralt would be really sad for Ciri, that she and Cerys will have the same kind of set-up that he and Emhyr did, but there's already a fundamental difference there. Ciri and Cerys talk all the time while they're apart, they treat virtual communication the same as in-person communication, they're happy with their long-distance relationship, and neither of them is uncommitted or resentful. It's a very mature approach to their situation, and they seem to have worked it out pretty well. If Geralt and Emhyr ever get back together, they're going to have a lot to learn from their new relationship role models: their teenage daughter and her girlfriend. </p>
<p>"Sure. The place isn't a five star hotel, but Cerys can come visit any time she wants." Geralt feels warm at Ciri's delighted smile, and pauses so Ciri can pull her phone out of her pocket and rapidly type out a message. He has a feeling he knows who it's going to and what it says. When Ciri puts her phone back in her pocket, Geralt asks, "Thought any more about that university, by the way?"</p>
<p>"Yes, I have. I've thought very much about it. And I was going to tell you my thoughts, but then I had to hug you and tell you about a Bruxa and try to scrape together something edible from the barren wilderness of our fridge." Ciri indicates the apple core on her plate, giving Geralt a long-suffering look that she dampens the effects of by scooping up a few sandwich crumbs with her finger and sticking them in her mouth. "I have some of the biggest news of my entire life, and you, Geralt, had to overshadow it with your absentmindedness and drama." </p>
<p>"That's me. All drama." Geralt lifts his bowl and slurps the cereal-infused water left in it, managing not to cringe at the cardboard-like taste because the irritated expression on Ciri's face is so funny. Ciri furrows her brow impatiently as Geralt loudly gulps down the  stale bran flake water, taking his time, until she lets out a noise that's somewhere between a huff and a whine and Geralt decides to stop messing with her. He puts the bowl down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and brushing a fleck of cereal off his beard. And then, finally, Geralt turns his attention to Ciri. "Go ahead." </p>
<p>"<em>Thank</em> you," Ciri replies pointedly, and then she can't keep from breaking out into a beaming smile. "I got all my university acceptances in. You were right about the schools I would get into. And I decided to go to Ceas'raet University." </p>
<p>"Congratulations. C'mere." Geralt gestures Ciri over, and breaks out in a smile of his own at the way she hops up and skips over to his chair. She bounces on the balls of her feet as she skids to a stop, too excited to stand in one place, and he feels both bad and impressed that she managed to contain her excitement until his messes were sorted out. Geralt puts his palms on the table and braces them there, trying to get some leverage to push himself to his feet to hug Ciri, and restrains himself from making a groaning dad noise as he presses harder on the table to ease himself up. Ciri puts her hands on Geralt's shoulders to keep him sitting, then crouches down so he can hug her without needing to haul his painful body up from the chair. Geralt clings to her as best as he can with the slightly awkward position, trying not to squash her - and trying even harder not to think about how far away Nilfgaard is, and much he's going to miss his daughter when she moves there. If he does, she might have to deal with yet another emotional incident from him. Instead, Geralt focuses on what's really important here: Ciri's happiness. "That's great, Ciri. Proud of you. Ceas'raet is lucky to have you." </p>
<p>"They're lucky to have me, but even luckier that I have you," Ciri says, giving Geralt one very strong squeeze before peeling herself off him to smile at him. "I wouldn't have been able to get admitted to that school if it wasn't for you."</p>
<p>Geralt snorts, crossing his arms. "Doubt that. Pretty sure you didn't get into the best university on the Continent because you were raised by a guy who can't spell and doesn't know what calculus is." </p>
<p>"Luckily, I wasn't relying on you to teach me calculus or spelling." Ciri sits cross-legged on the ugly floral tiles, looking up at Geralt with earnest bright green eyes. "I was relying on you to raise me properly and provide me with emotional support. And make sure I didn't die. If I needed you to teach me inverse function integration or connecting phonemes and graphemes, then I would be in trouble. But I didn't. I needed you to love me and feed me and push me out of the way of that moving van that turned the corner and almost killed me when I was twelve. So, you gave me everything I needed. Affection, a proper upbringing, and a good - though grumpy - role model." </p>
<p>"Yup. No idea what inverted funky connected caffeines are. Don't know if you should thank me for feeding you when you were just one ham sandwich away from Arctic Wasteland cereal, or thank me for the moving van thing when it was probably my fault you were playing in the street. Love you plenty, though." Geralt gives Ciri a wry smile. "I hope you mean Yennefer when you say grumpy role model, 'cause she's been a lot better of a role model than me. Hell, Yen even taught you to run a small business - yeah, I mean your little fungus operation. I checked out your super secret mushroom patch, in that mini greenhouse hidden in the cave at the bottom of the back side of the hill. Mushrooms look great. You're growing some good stuff there." </p>
<p>Geralt learned the location and full purpose of Ciri's mushroom patch from Yennefer. He video chatted Yen a few days ago, just to catch up on their lives and Ciri stuff, then asked Yen how the hallucinogenic mushroom drinks were going and what exactly the two of them were doing with them. Yen said she had "taught Ciri to be an entrepreneur and philanthropist", which turned out to mean Ciri was selling her beverages and powders and the mushrooms themselves, and that sounded a lot like Yen had turned Geralt's daughter into a drug dealer. Yen responded to that accusation by telling Geralt that if he was concerned he could go check out the conveniently-located mushroom patch himself, and then distracted him by telling him sob stories about the rescued wolves at the Kaer Morhen Wolf Sanctuary that Ciri donates the proceeds from her sales to. When Yen got to the malnourished three-legged one-eyed wolf that Ciri's donations had singlehandedly saved, Geralt gave up on his objections and admitted he was proud of his little "entrepreneur and philanthropist". </p>
<p>Ciri responds with an impish grin, not looking guilty in the least. "Yes, Yennefer has been a role model to me, and provided me with valuable lessons in small business ownership. But shall I remind you, Geralt, of who taught me to grow plants and fungi - including mushrooms? You also instilled a strong work ethic and a spirit of self-reliance in me, along with a deep compassion for animals. Therefore, one could say it was largely <em>your</em> influence that led to the launch of my commercial and charitable venture, my grumpy role model." </p>
<p>"Great. I'm getting credit for you becoming a drug dealer. Thanks bunches." Geralt shakes his head, looking down at Ciri's innocently blinking eyes, and sighs. "Guess I'd rather you get influenced by me and learn business management from Yennefer, than get all that from Emhyr. Sounds like Yen's teaching you ethics and personal growth. Emhyr would have you making the mushrooms pay you a ridiculous amount of money to call them failures and reorganize their patch." </p>
<p>"I would never do that. I love my mushrooms. And the wolves they save. Did you know, my mushroom money paid for surgery and nutrition for a wolf that lost a leg, an eye, and half his body weight? His name is Leo. I would show you a picture of him, but it would probably break your heart, you big softie." Ciri gives Geralt's left knee an affectionate pat. "And that's why I was so lucky to be raised by you. You have a soft heart for wolves, scary monsters, and the surprise daughter you took in and treated as like your own. You are high maintenance and I am constantly forced to endure your woes and find your glasses - really, Geralt, just put them in a case in the top drawer of your desk and you'll always know where they are! - but you taught me what's important in life. And I'd like to think I've been just as difficult." </p>
<p>"You sure have. Maybe more difficult. But I was lucky to raise you. You taught me a lot too." Geralt has to pull Ciri in for another hug, both because he wants to hug her and because she's had to deal with enough instances of him getting a little teary-eyed tonight. These past several months are the softest Geralt's ever been, but maybe that's not a bad thing. He's been soft for Ciri since the day he met her, anyway. Geralt didn't know then what his relationship with his new daughter would be like, if they'd be close or distant or hug or argue or just pass the time in silence until Ciri became an adult and went her own way in the world. But he likes the answer that's emerged. Geralt and Ciri can teach each other things, grow together, and be proud of each other. And that's even more reason why Geralt needs to finish the book, put it out into the world, and deserve the pride that Ciri has in him. He might be scared, confused, lost, uncertain, and a thousand other things, but those don't matter. What matters is that he's motivated. Ciri is Geralt's motivation. She always has been. Geralt owes it to her to see this thing through, and so he will. "Love you, Ciri. Can't wait for you to see your book." </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>On a sunny day in mid-April, a month before <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em>'s deadline, Geralt finds himself standing awkwardly inside the front door of Dettlaff and Regis's apartment with the smell of blueberry-filled pancakes in the air.</p>
<p>Walking through the lobby of the building gave Geralt blurred-up flashbacks of things he doesn't really remember, so he walked into the couple's lovely home with the uncomfortable feelings from his last time here fresh in his mind. Right after stepping through the doorway, he caught sight of a neatly made bed through the slightly ajar door to the guest bedroom and recalled waking up aching and miserable to find he'd kicked those covers off. Looking away from it, his eyes landed on the grey tweed sofa and stirred up foggy recollections of slurring out a confession of his inadequacy into Dettlaff's chest. After that, his attention wandered to the dining room table, and that brought back memories of sipping a bitter brew while trying not to be sick or think too hard about the pining-third-wheel realization he'd just had in the shower. Everywhere Geralt looks, there are reminders of his sloppy drunk and messy hungover escapades. So already his visit is off to a great and uncomfortable start. </p>
<p>The couple invited Geralt over, though. His peaceful morning cup of green tea was interrupted by a text from Regis informing him that he and Dettlaff were making pancakes for breakfast, and that Geralt had promised to come over the next time they made pancakes. So there wasn't much Geralt could do besides tangle his hair up in a messy half-bun, throw on the first clean clothes he found in a dresser drawer, snatch up the pile of Dettlaff's clothes he borrowed and still hasn't returned, and hop in his truck to make the long trip to North Daevon as fast as he could so he didn't keep them waiting. A promise is a promise. </p>
<p>"There you are, my dear." Regis is wearing an apron with dried pancake batter on it and his sideburns are in need of shaping up, which gives him a domestic look that's almost painfully comforting. Regis clasps Geralt's arm with one hand, then pulls him into a hug that has Geralt blinking in surprise. "Lovely to finally see you for breakfast. I'd begun to think you were avoiding us." </p>
<p>"Nope," Geralt mumbles into the hug, even though - he kind of has been, a little bit. Not avoiding in the sense of trying to stay away from them, but in the sense of not accepting a standing offer they clearly wanted him to take. Geralt's tried to justify that a whole number of ways, from reminding himself that he's doing them a favor and that they don't know what they're offering him and that the more time he spends with them the less time they'll want to spend with him in the future, but ultimately Regis hit the nail on the head. Geralt talks to Regis and Dettlaff over the phone and emails and texts all the time, but he <em>is</em> kind of, in a sense, avoiding them. </p>
<p>"Well, make yourself at home." Regis releases Geralt, giving him a smile that's too bright to be in response to Geralt darkening his doorstep. Geralt awkwardly holds out the plastic bag he's carrying Dettlaff's clothes in, and Regis takes a quick bemused glance into it before chuckling and taking it from Geralt. "Ah, of course. We have some clothes to return to you as well - laundered and folded, of course - so remind me to fetch them for you before you depart. Now, take your sweater off, settle in, and join me in the kitchen. I've made tea for you - far less astringent than the last time, you'll be relieved to hear." </p>
<p>Geralt watches Regis make his way through the apartment, then begins to remove the sweater as directed. It's Dettlaff's cardigan, since he needs to return it too but it didn't fit in the small bag he put the rest of the borrowed items in. He spent the rest of the winter wearing that same thick zip-up hoodie with the green plaid scarf and gloves that Regis gave him, because he couldn't make himself put Emhyr's coat back on, but ever since it's warmed up he might've absentmindedly put on Dettlaff's cardigan once or twice. He takes one more moment to absorb the warmth of the sweater, even though it's a little heavy for the spring day, and then reluctantly slips it off and puts it on a coat-hook. Geralt gives it one more long look, just to make sure he hung it up securely enough that it won't fall, before belatedly following Regis to the kitchen. As he passes the living room he catches a glimpse of the heavy white knit blanket folded neatly on the armchair in the living room, and remembers how the two of them wrapped it around his pitifully hunched and shivering body. So it looks like everything that transpired during that impromptu sleepover is just going to keep haunting him during his time here. It already haunts him when his mind decides to spontaneously play back the embarrassment, so this is nothing unusual. </p>
<p>The kitchen is just as tidy and spotless as the last time Geralt saw it, despite the food preparation going on. Regis has all kinds of dishes and measuring implements on the counters, arranged so neatly and evenly that it looks like the TV set of an alchemist filming a cooking show. Which makes a lot of sense, given Regis's chemistry background. There's a tea sitting on the edge of the counter closest to Geralt, steaming in a black ceramic mug painted with a raven that's unmistakably in Dettlaff's style. Regis gestures to the tea and says, "Green tea blend by me, and mug by Dettlaff. He'll be too modest to mention he made most of our dishes, so I'll do it for him. The list of his skills never ends, does it?" </p>
<p>"Sure doesn't," Geralt says, somehow unsurprised that Dettlaff is also talented at ceramics. It seems like there's nothing artistic or crafted that Dettlaff can't do. Regis could tell him Dettlaff built this apartment, and he might believe it. Geralt picks up the tea and blows on it lightly to cool it before sipping it, enjoying the strong taste of the herbs. The heat still bites at his tongue, though, so he puts it back down to cool for a while longer. "Dettlaff around? He told me he's wrapping up the art for The Caretaker. Want to see if he'll give me a peek." </p>
<p>"Ah! Right. I almost forgot my orders - I was so pleased by your company that the unpalatable thought of removing it from my vicinity completely took its leave of my mind. Dettlaff wanted me to send you into his studio once you arrived." Regis gestures towards the half-open door that Geralt recognizes from his previous tour, a few indistinct shuffling and tapping noises coming from it. "Go on in, and I'll have breakfast ready by the time you return." </p>
<p>Dettlaff's studio is sunny and spacious when Geralt inches into it, feeling like he's interrupting something even though Regis told him Dettlaff is waiting for him. He knocks on the partially-open door before entering, because it seems rude not to give advance notice of his presence even if Dettlaff must've heard him coming. The first thing Geralt sees is that table by the window he spotted before, with the two stools at it now in sight. There are three easels along the far wall: two hold paintings of surreal shapes in dark colors that make Geralt uneasy to look at, and one is covered. There are more art pieces in that area, some framed and some on what appears to be a temporary backing, leaned carefully against the wall with their backs turned to the room and sheet under them. The smaller table Geralt saw has been cleared of the art supplies, now put away in the organizer with clear drawers that stands beside it. The table is now covered with rolls and cut pieces of various fabrics, bags and loose tufts of stuffing, and cut-out paper patterns. </p>
<p>Dettlaff is sitting on a stool at the table, hunched over fabric that he's sewing together with a needle and thread. He looks wonderfully candid in the same way Regis did, the way that does something warm and a little painful to Geralt's heart. Dettlaff's hair is curlier than usual and slipping out of where he has it tucked behind his ear, he's wearing loose and casual clothing with slippers on his feet, and his face is furrowed in a look of concentration. Dettlaff's eyes snap up to Geralt, their light blue looking almost silver in the sunlight, and Geralt freezes in place until he sees the little upturning of Dettlaff's lips. "Geralt." </p>
<p>"G'morning," Geralt says, and has to fight the feeling that he should be kissing Dettlaff. Another association thing. Usually when Geralt sees intense people who are normally put-together and polished looking dressed down and soft, it's because they're his partners - like Emhyr and Yennefer - and they're in a gentle domestic situation where he ends up kissing them. Geralt pushes that away, though, because he wants to add Dettlaff to that list but he can't. Instead, he peers at the craft in Dettlaff's hands. "What're you making?"    </p>
<p>"Bears," Dettlaff says. He indicates an open wood box on the table, clearly of his own construction, for Geralt to look inside. Geralt can see a few small plush teddy bears with plump bodies and black bead eyes, carefully hand-sewn. "I make toys for children in need. Most are donated to hospitals. These will be donated to the orphanage Orianna is auctioning her paintings to raise money for." </p>
<p>"Cute," Geralt says, his heart doing that same thing again. He's talking partially about the teddy bears, and partially about Dettlaff making them to donate to charity.  Between Dettlaff speaking so kindly to Geralt, rescuing injured ravens, helping Geralt with his injured knee, and sewing plush toys for children who need something soft, Dettlaff just keeps getting sweeter. It's nearly too much. Geralt can add yet another type of crafting to Dettlaff's list of talents - and, apparently, another style of painting. Geralt indicates the unnerving shadowy pieces on the easels across the room. "Those paintings. A lot different than your monster art." </p>
<p>"Yes. My independent art." Dettlaff puts down the needle and fabric that's come together into a teddy bear arm, and stands up from his stool. He walks over to the far wall, bending down and selecting one of the backwards paintings with the same ease that he always flips to the right page in his sketchbook. He turns it around for Geralt to see, and Geralt has to keep from shuddering at the strange contortions of the red mist on the black canvas into a shape that he feels he should recognize but doesn't. Geralt can't explain what's so viscerally unsettling about the paintings, but it's - amazing. There's something oddly beautiful about them, and the fact that they can make him feel so strongly is impressive. "These, I display in art shows and sell. Often in conjunction with other members of my collective, Gharasham, which includes Orianna." </p>
<p>Geralt would find it difficult to guess who would buy such eerie art and presumably put it somewhere in their home, but between this and Orianna's dark landscapes, he's getting the sense that the Gharasham Collective's work is appealing to an audience that likes the creepy and subversive. He's a little apprehensive to find out what kind of art the other members do. Given that Gharasham and its artists are apparently very popular and highly regarded, there must be a market for that. Geralt nods at the painting. He'd tell Dettlaff he likes his disturbing art whether it was true or not, but strangely, he finds he's actually being honest when he says, "I like it. Really good. Makes you feel something." </p>
<p>"Thank you, Geralt." Dettlaff puts the weird mist down, back in its place against the wall. "It is indeed much different than my work as a book illustrator. But it allows me complete creative freedom, and pays far better." </p>
<p>Geralt doesn't know enough about the book industry to know if that means Dettlaff's independent art sells for a lot or that book illustration pays very badly, but he gets the feeling that the former is true. Which would explain why the couple has such a nice apartment - at least, partially, since Regis contributes too - but leaves Geralt wondering why Dettlaff paints cryptids for weird monster books and steamy covers for smutty novels. Dettlaff could be using the time he spends creating Queen Endregas and Vigilosaurs for Geralt on art that, apparently, allows him complete creative freedom and pays far better. That thing that's always bubbling under the surface of Geralt's mind, the one reminding him that people could be doing much better things than wasting their time on him and his attempt at a book, breaks that surface. It's even worse now that Geralt knows his book isn't supposed to exist, and that everyone involved in making it happen is getting their energy and lifespans eaten up by a pity project for a rich important asshole's untalented and useless sex toy. </p>
<p>"I wished to show you something," Dettlaff says, and indicates the covered piece on the third easel. As he reaches for the cloth obscuring it, though, Dettlaff pauses and looks a bit uncertain. "I must confess, I do not know if it will be too much. I have drawn you many times, which does not seem to have bothered you, but perhaps..."</p>
<p>"It'll be fine," Geralt says, even though he's not sure what's under the cloth and how Dettlaff drawing him fits into the situation. It crosses his mind that maybe this painting is hidden because it's the most disconcerting one Dettlaff's ever made, and he's hiding it from people until he thinks they can handle it. Which seems more and more likely the more Geralt thinks about it, and he can feel a shiver preparing to run down his spine - though if the implication is that Geralt is a creepy thing and art of him would've prepared him for the world's most grotesque art, then that's understandable but hurtful. Still, Geralt nods. "I'd like to see it. If you don't mind showing me." </p>
<p>Dettlaff pulls the cover off the easel, and. Geralt can't do anything but stare, frozen. </p>
<p>The painting is of Geralt. It's photorealistic to the point that it feels like he's looking into a mirror. All the painted Geralt's features are identical to the ones on the flesh-and-blood Geralt's face: the angles of the bone in his nose, the crooks of his long winding scar, the differing fullness of his lips, the precise length of his eyelashes and eyebrow hairs. The curve of his neck and the width of his shoulders capture the posture Geralt has when he's sitting and leaning forward just a bit. The colors are exact: the white of his hair and beard, the pale beige of his skin, the pink of his lips, the faded red of his scar, the nearly glowing gold of his eyes. His hair is pulled back in its frequent half-ponytail style, with the little bumps and overlaps of the strands on the top of his head where he never gets it perfectly smooth and all the wisps and larger pieces that escape from his hair elastic throughout the day. The painted Geralt is - perfect, and handsome somehow, despite being a perfect copy of the real Geralt. To Geralt's knowledge, Dettlaff doesn't have any photos of him, and Geralt didn't pose for it. Which means Dettlaff did this whole thing from memory. He knows Geralt's face even better than Geralt does. That knowledge alone would leave Geralt feeling overwhelmed, even without countless hours' worth of proof right in front of him. </p>
<p>"I'm," Geralt says, finally, voice raspy. "It's." </p>
<p>"I apologize," Dettlaff says, and Geralt turns to see the usual reaction-scrutinizing look in his eyes faltering into something concerned and nearly ashamed. "I should have known it was -"</p>
<p>"Perfect," Geralt says, still stunned, with his breath catching ragged in his throat. "Dettlaff, it's. Perfect." </p>
<p>"Is it?" Dettlaff's deep blue eyes, the ones expressive enough for the rest of his face, begin to shift into something hesitant and afraid to be hopeful. "You need not spare my -" </p>
<p>Geralt shuts Dettlaff up with a hug. Dettlaff's body temperature is low, but he's solid and steady in Geralt's hold. Dettlaff brings his strong arms up to wrap around Geralt, tight enough to secure him where their chests rise and fall together with their breaths, and he's just the right height for Geralt to bury his face in the place between Dettlaff's shoulder and neck and close his eyes. Dettlaff's grasp on Geralt gets firmer when Geralt slumps against him, needing the support of his big frame. Geralt clings to Dettlaff like he's struggling to keep himself from floating adrift, because he is. Dettlaff was right, the painting <em>was</em> too much, but not in a bad way and not in the way he probably thinks. Geralt could never have imagined someone would memorize his face, or spend an unknowable amount of time thinking about it, and yet, Dettlaff did both of those things and then spent the energy to commit it to canvas. Geralt's getting swept away, and he's struggling so hard to handle it that he gives up trying. He doesn't know why Dettlaff thought Geralt was worth all this, but he did. Dettlaff thought Geralt was <em>worth</em> it. And Geralt doesn't know how to be worth anything. </p>
<p>"I am glad you like it," Dettlaff finally says, beginning to stroke Geralt's back as Geralt trembles. His voice is clearly affected by the way his breath is restricted as his lungs are compressed by the force of Geralt's hug, but Geralt still can't let go of him, not yet. "I debated whether to show it to you, but Regis told me I should. He said it would convey something." </p>
<p>"It did," Geralt mumbles into Dettlaff's shoulder. "It did." </p>
<p>After a while, Geralt's legs get more steady under him and he remembers that it's actually a problem when people can't breathe properly. He releases his squeezing grip on Dettlaff, feeling a little like a boa constrictor uncurling around its prey, and then gradually lifts his face out of the place he unceremoniously burrowed it into. He feels light-headed, despite the way he hasn't been supporting much of his own weight for an unguessable length of time. Dettlaff pats Geralt on the back a few more times, before letting go of him as well. Before letting him step away, though, Dettlaff brushes back some hair that got tugged out of its elastic and into Geralt's face while he was seizing and nuzzling Dettlaff. He tucks some behind Geralt's ear and smooths some out, depending on which approach would make him look less messy. Geralt gives Dettlaff a sheepish little smile, and Dettlaff gives him a much smaller but less abashed one in return. </p>
<p>"In case you didn't guess, I really like the painting and I think it's really good," Geralt says. Dettlaff does that tiny and quick rumbling laugh again, the one that makes Geralt feel very proud and accomplished to get. It feels even better that this time, it was due to his natural charm and not his drunk stupidity. "Thanks. For..." </p>
<p>"The pleasure is mine, as always," Dettlaff replies. He cups Geralt's cheek in a big hand, and leans in so his face is closer to Geralt's, and then Geralt feels everything in his body racing out of control when he feels Dettlaff's breath on his lips. Geralt could kiss Dettlaff. It would be so easy. He'd just have to lean in a little further, tilt his head a bit, and they'd be kissing. That's all he'd have to do. He could damn the consequences, decide to worry later about everything that action might send spiralling straight to hell, and kiss Dettlaff. This close, and in this position, it'd be so little effort that he could potentially do it on accident. Geralt closes his eyes, and decides that if he did somehow kiss Dettlaff by accident, he'd live with whatever happened next. The two of them stand there for a bit, before Dettlaff strokes Geralt's cheekbone with his thumb and pulls away. Geralt opens his eyes and looks at the painted Geralt, because he can't look at Dettlaff's face. He can't imagine what he'd see on it, and it'd likely be better not to know. Then Dettlaff says, "Regis will be waiting for us. Let's go to breakfast." </p>
<p>Regis. Fuck, <em>Regis</em>. Geralt is hit with a wave of shock as he remembers that Dettlaff has a partner, a partner who he very much loves that's cooking for them right outside.  A partner whose permission Geralt never asked to do the thing he almost did, which he didn't ask Dettlaff's permission to do either. If Geralt had kissed Dettlaff, then - <em>fuck</em>, that would've been such a betrayal of Regis that Geralt couldn't live with himself, not to mention a betrayal of Dettlaff, and the couple's relationship. And it would have been, in so many ways and for so many reasons, completely inappropriate and disrespectful. Geralt is overwhelmingly relieved that he didn't do something extremely stupid, horrified that Regis completely slipped his mind, and so ashamed he feels sick. Geralt is too fucking far gone that he's starting to lose his sense. Coming over here, stopping his avoidance of the couple, might've been a huge fucking mistake. As a reminder to himself just as much as an agreement with Dettlaff, Geralt says, "Yeah. Regis. Let's get back to him. Shouldn't have kept him waiting so long." </p>
<p>"Regis will not mind," Dettlaff says. He puts his hand on Geralt's waist, just above his hip, and leans in close again. And Geralt would think he has to be imagining the way Dettlaff's eyes go to Geralt's lips, or that they've landed there by accident, but there's no way either of those could be the case. Dettlaff's gaze is always so focused, and always goes exactly where he intends it to, meaning - that's what Dettlaff wants to be looking at, and intently. Geralt's lips. "Regis hoped that showing you the painting would bring us closer. He will be pleased by the time we spent together. And very pleased by how we spent it." </p>
<p>Geralt is left feeling completely off balance again, so off balance that he physically stumbles, as Dettlaff releases his waist and then heads for the door without stopping to see if Geralt is following him. Geralt still can't believe he's not imagining the implications of those words and actions, and maybe he's imagining <em>some</em> of them, because he's already established that he's losing his mind and losing his sense, but at the very least - well, Geralt's concern that Regis would feel betrayed by him almost kissing Dettlaff is gone. Which is a hell of a thing to disappear. But Dettlaff has to know, <em>has</em> to know, that Geralt wanted to kiss him. Has to know Geralt almost did. And Dettlaff is the person who knows Regis best, so if Dettlaff thinks Regis would be happy about what just happened - almost-kiss and all - then Geralt's not going to doubt the person who knows Regis best. </p>
<p>"Well, you boys certainly took your time." Regis's eyes are glimmering with mischief when Geralt follows Dettlaff into the kitchen, something suggestive about his smile. "Enjoy yourselves?" </p>
<p>"Innocently," Dettlaff replies, then cups Regis's cheek the same way he cupped Geralt's and pulls Regis in for a kiss. It's a long and passionate kiss, slow and exaggerated and perfectly angled, almost like they're putting on a show for Geralt - and, fuck, that thought has to be part of Geralt's sense-losing. But after what just happened in Dettlaff's studio, what they did and what Dettlaff said, Geralt's wondering if maybe it's not the most ridiculous thought he's had in his life. </p>
<p>"I already set the table," Regis says, when he separates his mouth from Dettlaff's. He sounds just a bit out of breath, and hearing that little change in his voice after watching his enthusiastic kiss with his partner is - a lot for Geralt to handle. He has the jarring thought that, if it had been Regis cupping his cheek and breathing on his lips in the studio then looking directly at them, Geralt would've come one tiny slip away from kissing him too. He would've felt guilty about not asking permission from Dettlaff, and he would've been relieved if Regis told him Dettlaff would be okay with it. Geralt wonders if Dettlaff <em>would</em> be okay with it. If that enthusiasm about their shared closeness goes both ways. Geralt can't think about what it might mean if it does, what it might mean if Dettlaff would want Geralt to be nearly kissing Regis in his office. Geralt is snapped out of it when Regis passes in front of him, smiling at the zoned out expression on his face. "Geralt, don't forget your tea." </p>
<p>Geralt stares after the couple as they walk off to the dining room, hand in hand, and then almost automatically picks up the black ceramic raven-painted mug. He takes a sip of the green tea to steady his nerves, finding it a lot cooler this time. And then, when Geralt thinks he can face the two of them without being overrun by hypotheticals that are just mixing him and his place in this situation up even worse than they're already mixed up, he follows the men he's head over heels for into the dining room. </p>
<p>The dining table has an impressive spread of food set out on large blue ceramic plates and bowls: sausages, scrambled eggs with chunks of ham, a salad comprised of a variety of cut fruit, and of course the central blueberry-filled rolled pancakes with jam to top them. A teapot has been placed in the middle of the dishes for refills. The amount could easily feed five people, and even three would struggle and probably fail to finish it. Geralt has to wonder if the two of them put this much effort and quantity into breakfast every morning, or if they've treated this as a special occasion. He doesn't dare to hope it's the latter, but no one would make this much food for two. </p>
<p>As soon as Geralt sits down at the table, his hands occupied with the heavy mug of tea, food starts appearing on the plate in front of him. Geralt blinks as it slowly gets piled up with a hearty amount of everything on offer. Regis chuckles at the way Geralt tilts his head. "Disregard anything you don't like. I'm assuming you'll be hungry - I know how inconsistent you are at feeding yourself when left to your own devices." </p>
<p>The assumption isn't wrong. Until Geralt got their invitation, he was probably going to finish his tea and then spend several hours agonizing over The Caretaker chapter before remembering to forage around in the off-kilter kitchen cabinets and buzzing fridge until settling on microwaving a bowl of leftover oatmeal that had been dangerously close to The Arctic Wasteland for an indeterminate time. Geralt offers Regis a sheepish smile, which says it all, and then starts on the food. </p>
<p>Regis sets off on one of his signature ramblings while they eat, interspersing "musings on the multitude of benefits and consequences resulting from running geoengineering experiments with the potential to affect the environments of inhabited locations" with bites of various breakfast food and comments on their deliciousness. Geralt nods, completely lost in the jargon but satisfied by both the sound of Regis's voice and the food. He can now confirm that the blueberry pancakes are just as good as Regis said they would be, and so is everything else. Every time Geralt clears part of his plate, Dettlaff subtly fills it up again, no doubt trying to offset Geralt's admission of forgetfulness in regards to nutrition. Finally Geralt has to push the plate away, stomach full and body sluggish, to keep Dettlaff from feeding him until he's unable to move from this chair for several days. This happens at the same time Regis wraps up his lengthy monologue with a cheerful, "- but all experiments are founded on the subjective resolution of ethical debates and contentious cost-benefit analyses, and so, one can never truly make a conclusive judgement on interventions on this scale and level of consequence. Anyhow - Geralt, dear, did you enjoy your breakfast?" </p>
<p>"Mhm," Geralt replies. Not for the first time, he's glad he's adjusted to Regis's quick topic-switching and no longer gets conversational whiplash. "Really enjoyed it. Pancakes were good. Everything was, actually. Thanks." </p>
<p>"Of course. I'm glad you enjoyed the outcome of our plan to lure you into our company and provide you with nutrients." Regis reaches out, and Geralt automatically puts his hand out to be patted. He really has been conditioned. "It seems only fair that, after being subjected to my verbal meanderings on topics of niche interest, you should receive the opportunity to get a word in edgewise." </p>
<p>Geralt doesn't have a word to get in edgewise, and normally, he'd pass on the opportunity. But Dettlaff and Regis are both looking at him like they're hoping he'll say something, and they're genuinely interested in hearing it. Geralt doesn't want to disappoint them, so he says, "'Bout what?" </p>
<p>"Anything you would like," Dettlaff responds, leaning slightly forward to better give off the impression that he's trying to pierce into Geralt's brain with his eyes. </p>
<p>When put on the spot to talk about something, Geralt has one go-to topic, and that's monsters. Even then, he usually deflects the attention off himself as quickly as he can, since most people don't care about monsters. Luckily, his illustrator and editor are working on a cryptid book with him, so Geralt has a topic he knows they'll care about. Which is a relief. "We could talk about Chapter 13 stuff. The Caretaker." Geralt hesitates, seeing a problem with that topic too. "Or not, if you don't want to talk about work. Never mind. Won't interrupt your time off." </p>
<p>"I'll let you in on a secret about the life of an editor," Regis says, with a wry smile. "There is no time off. That is, unless we definitively block one off, and even then the boundaries tend to be flexible. I assume, being a writer, you feel much the same way. And, in all honesty, there are some books I would not wish to discuss during a leisurely breakfast such as this one, and some authors I certainly would not wish to talk to. It just so happens that you and your book fit into neither category." </p>
<p>"Don't want to push those boundaries, though." Geralt looks down at the few drops of tea in the bottom of his empty mug. "If everyone else pushes your job into your time off, that's more reason for me not to do it." </p>
<p>"This is not a job for us," Dettlaff says, with such seriousness that Geralt looks into his pale blue eyes in confusion. They're very intent on conveying something, but Geralt's not entirely sure what. "You, Geralt, are not merely an author that we are duty-bound to collaborate with, and <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> is not merely a responsibility that we are contractually obligated to work on. Please understand that you and your book are part of our lives now, and a crucial part at that. To work with you, and to work on your book, are both a pleasure. One we enjoy so much that we discuss <em>Cryptids</em> in our dedicated time off, simply for pleasure." </p>
<p>Geralt is further confused. Then confusion gives way to disbelief, and disbelief gives way to suspicion, and suspicion gives way to the feeling that Dettlaff must be patronizing him. Or blowing smoke up his ass. Or trying to reassure him out of pity. Those seem like the only reasons that anyone would say something like that. But Geralt knows that Dettlaff doesn't say anything he doesn't mean. He doesn't patronize people, mock them, try to butter them up, or lie to them. If Dettlaff says something, he one-hundred percent believes it and stands by it. Dettlaff doesn't make up events, so if Dettlaff says something happened, it happened. Dettlaff doesn't misrepresent other people, either, including Regis. So if Dettlaff conveys what someone else thinks or feels, he's directly heard them say it. Geralt may not understand <em>why</em> Dettlaff and Regis feel that way, why they enjoy talking about and working on a weird monster book that shouldn't exist to the point that they do it in their free time for pleasure, but he can't deny that they <em>do</em>. Not when Dettlaff tells him they do.</p>
<p>That revelation is so unexpected, and so incomprehensible, that Geralt doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to mentally accept that, so he has no chance at verbally accepting it. The best Geralt can do is mumble down at his mug, "Thanks." </p>
<p>"So let's talk about Chapter 13," Regis says, in the tone of voice that tells Geralt to stick his hand out to be held. Geralt does it without looking up from the drying drops of tea in the mug, just knowing he's supposed to. When Regis takes Geralt's hand in his own and begins to stroke his knuckles with a bony thumb, something in Geralt is able to emotionally accept that his editor and illustrator enjoy <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> and its author even if he can't metally understand it. "Let's talk about The Caretaker." </p>
<p>Feeling Regis rubbing his hand and looking at the food Dettlaff put on his plate, and thinking about how that fits in with everything else they've done for him and everything they continue to do, Geralt knows he has two more caretakers in his life. Ones that aren't cryptids at all. </p>
<p>"Okay. Well," Geralt says, when he can finally retract his hand from Regis's; stretching across the table like that was starting to get uncomfortable, no matter how comfortable the actual handholding was. "Wanted your opinion on a few things, from the outline and snippets I sent. First one was whether the legend had good pacing. Second was whether the physical description of The Caretaker made it sound different than cryptids from this sphere, got across that it's from a different dimension. Third was what you thought about including that poem, the surreal one randomly in the middle of the journal in handwriting that doesn't look like Olgierd's - at least, not his usual handwriting. So, guess I'm wondering... if the story flows, if the relict sounds alien, and if the poem's inclusion adds what I wanted it to add or seems out of place." </p>
<p>Once Geralt's done talking, he has a second where he realized how naturally all that came out of his mouth. Things he wouldn't have been able to say a year ago, or wouldn't even think of. Analysis he wasn't capable of, terms he didn't know, questions he wouldn't have considered. But he's saying those kinds of terms now: <em>pacing, flow, inclusion</em>. He's asking those kind of questions: <em>whether it had good pacing, whether it got across, whether it adds what it's intended to, whether it seems out of place</em>. Now that Geralt thinks about it, he thought about things like that when he was looking at the painting of himself earlier. Terms like <em>photorealistic, angles, curves</em>. Noticing things he wouldn't have before: <em>precise length, posture, exact colors</em>. And that's all because of Regis and Dettlaff. What they were kind enough to teach him, to walk him through, to help him pick up. What they've helped him to learn. Because Geralt has learned, and he's learned so much. It's kind of amazing, how Geralt - an uncultured guy with no education that can't even spell or reliably remember how to open attachments from emails - could be taught all this. It's amazing what feats good, kind, patient, understanding teachers like Dettlaff and Regis could achieve - and help their student Geralt achieve. </p>
<p>Maybe Geralt should try bragging to Ciri about that. Sure, she'll probably reply with words and concepts he was unaware of the existence of, but maybe she'll also be proud. If Ciri's proud of Geralt for finishing a book and putting it out there, regardless of quality, then she might be proud of Geralt for learning these things, no matter how simple they might seem to her. Yeah. Geralt's going to go home and brag to his genius teenage daughter that he knows how story pacing works and he can identify posture in a bust painting. </p>
<p>"I shall give you simple answers for the time being, to avoid regaling you with my thoughts on two separate occasions," Regis replies. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, nodding as he looks in the direction of nowhere in particular. "The pacing - a bit hard to determine from snippets and outline alone, but you do seem to be on the right track. The description of The Caretaker - yes, I do think you properly conveyed that some extra-dimensional things about the creature cannot be captured in mere human terms, a sentiment which Dettlaff echoed while sketching it. The inclusion of the poem - I appreciated it, as its disjointed placement in the journal and the uncertain origin of the handwriting along with the semi-incomprehensibility of the poem itself added to the sense that unusual and inexplicable things happen around this creature. Particularly when you pointed out in the narrative that the difference in handwriting means the poem could have been written by someone who was not Olgierd, or by Olgierd under some kind of influence or possession. Yes, I'd say it's very effective in terms of what it adds to the chapter." </p>
<p>"I'll keep an eye on the pacing, keep the cryptid description how it is, and leave the poem in there. Glad to hear the poem works, cause I like it there." Geralt twists his lips wryly at Regis. "Especially after you told me it was made up of bizarre gibberish that wouldn't make much sense to anyone, after I sent it to you and asked you what it meant. Figured that was just me being too dumb to understand poetry, so, it made me feel better to hear a literary expert didn't think anybody else would get it either. Made the poem a lot creepier too." </p>
<p>"Nonsense. You are not dumb, and you are certainly not "too dumb to understand poetry"." Regis gives Geralt that confusing sympathetic look, the one that always makes Geralt wonder what he's sympathizing with. "After all, you understood the note we gave you with your holiday present just fine, did you not? That was a poem." </p>
<p>"Um." Geralt falters, caught in a dilemma. On one hand, he doesn't want to tell Dettlaff and Regis that he dissolved their present and hid his mistake from them. On the other hand, this is probably the most convenient chance he'll get to find out what it said. Regis practically put the opportunity into his hand. If Geralt's going to ask about that note, he should do it now, before even more time passes and it gets even more awkward and he'd probably have to bring it up out of the blue. So Geralt says, slowly and hesitantly, "About that note. Gotta admit something. I couldn't read it at the park, because of the snow. Tried to read it when I got home, but I knocked a mug of tea over while I was looking for my glasses, and... you can fill in the rest. I never got to read it. Sorry." </p>
<p>"Oh." Regis's voice sounds surprised, and it's not a good surprised, but Geralt can't tell if it's a shocked surprised or a judgemental surprised or an annoyed surprised or an angry surprised. He might be able to tell if he looked up from the mushed blueberry on the edge of the plate he pushed away, but he doesn't want to do that. He knows he probably resembles a guilty puppy that chewed up its owner's furniture, with the way he's hunched over and looking down, but that's not too far off. The general principle, fucking up a nice thing that someone cared about, is the same. "You never read our note. Why didn't you tell us what happened to it?" </p>
<p>"Sorry." Geralt wilts further. He knew he was ashamed of his screw-up and cover-up, but it turns out that surprising and disappointing Regis feels even worse than he expected. He doesn't need to hear Dettlaff speak to know he's probably disappointed too. The deflated and squashed blueberry is starting to feel relatable. "I got the <em>our dear Geralt</em> and <em>happily yours</em> parts, but that's it. Didn't say anything because I knew you must've worked hard on it, and it feels bad when someone ruins something you worked hard on. So. Thought it was better not to tell you I destroyed your present. Felt bad about it, too."</p>
<p>"You have nothing to apologize for," Dettlaff says. Geralt slowly drags his eyes up from the smushed blueberry to see the sincerity in Dettlaff's. "And you have nothing to feel bad about. Accidents happen. We understand." </p>
<p>"Thanks," Geralt says quietly, feeling a little better about his mistake but no less tempted to look away again. "Still sorry I melted your poem, though. And that I didn't tell you." </p>
<p>"Bygones are bygones." Regis waves his hand like he's trying to shoo away Geralt's apologies, and with them, his guilt. The absolution works - or, at least, Geralt feels less like a callous monster. But then, strangely, it's Regis that gets hesitant. "I must confess, I would have - behaved differently, had I known you hadn't read our note. I suspect Dettlaff would as well. I - or, we - apologize for that. But from the text message you sent us the next morning, we assumed - well, never mind that." </p>
<p>Geralt remembers that text message. It said thx for present love it cute vigilosaur n raven note hapily urs too. Which seemed like a good response, because he did love the picture and he did love the note, and referencing the part he'd read seemed like a good way to both convey his genuine feelings towards that part and imply he'd read the rest. That worked, apparently. The problem is, he seems to have put Regis and Dettlaff in a situation where they're sorry about some actions, but Geralt can't imagine which ones or why. He tilts his head. "Don't see why you two should've behaved differently. Wouldn't want you to behave differently. Don't change, just because I didn't read the note. But, sounds like I should know - what'd it say?" </p>
<p>"Let's see... do I recall..." Regis thinks for a bit, exchanges one of those looks with Dettlaff that shares a whole conversation between them, then gazes into the distance and thinks again. Finally, he gives Geralt a rueful smile and a shake of his head. "It seems that, once again, my memory has let something of consequence slip away from me. Perhaps I should blame age, as I really should remember. I long agonized over each individual letter while crafting the poem, often beseeching Dettlaff to assist me in choosing between words with only the slightest difference in implication, to ensure I conveyed both of our sentiments as precisely as possible. Alas, would that I had not disposed of my countless drafts, believing my own records to be of no consequence once the message had received the one for whom it was intended." </p>
<p>Geralt nods, summing that up as a typical long-winded Regis way to say <em>I don't remember and I threw my notes away</em>. It's disappointing to know he'll never get to hear the full poem, but he didn't expect he ever would anyway. "General idea? Doesn't have to be word for word." </p>
<p>"Alas, I am afraid that any summary of the poem would fall quite short of the original, not to mention lack the precision of phrasing that I so exhaustively struggled to achieve. The precise words were, unfortunately, critical to the success of our endeavour to explain that which we desired to say in as exact terms as possible. To present a paltry attempt to recreate some shoddy semblance of the poem would do all three of us a great disservice, as it would not properly express that which we desired to  address. Additionally, it would be much less artful. Perhaps, given time, I can construct a proper replacement. At this moment, however, I cannot simply give you a gist." Regis looks sorrowful about his admission, like there's some all-powerful force keeping him from doing something he'd love to do with all his heart. Though, technically there is: Regis's own literary perfectionism. "My deepest and sincerest apologies, Geralt." </p>
<p>"I get it," Geralt says, even though he doesn't totally get it.  "Well... the raven drawing was cute, and I liked the first and last lines of the poem. So at least I got something." </p>
<p>"I am glad the raven pleased you. It was the raven we found injured in the park in October and brought to the avian veterinarian. I think about that raven often. I wonder about its health." Dettlaff looks at Geralt with something that might be fondness in his gaze, the one so often mistaken as icy. "And I think about how you helped to save it, and my gratitude to you for your kindness towards a vulnerable creature that most would consider insignificant or unworthy of care. I thought the drawing of the raven would symbolize something I find very dear about you."</p>
<p>Geralt ducks his head, the fondness in that gaze suddenly feeling like too much. He doesn't deserve that kind of praise, or that kind of fondness, just for helping a bird that needed it. If anything, Dettlaff's the one who should be praised, since he's the one that started the raven rescue in the first place. Dettlaff's the one who shows kindness towards vulnerable creatures that might seem insignificant or unworthy of care, like injured ravens. Or creatures that <em>are</em> insignificant and unworthy of care, like helpless  and socially stilted writers that most people aren't too keen on being around. "Just wanted to make sure the bird would be okay." </p>
<p>"You care deeply about many things, many people, and many animals. I cannot help but care deeply for you in turn." Dettlaff stands up from his chair. He walks behind Regis's chair, then around the table to Geralt's and rests his hand on Geralt's upper back for a long moment. Then, finally, he lifts it and leaves Geralt's back feeling warm and desperate for another touch. Dettlaff heads in the direction of his studio, turning briefly to tell Geralt and Regis, "I will return shortly. I wish to show Geralt my sketch of The Caretaker." </p>
<p>"Ah, Dettlaff. He truly cannot leave a single heart un-fluttered." Regis smiles, shaking his head as he looks briefly at Dettlaff disappearing into his studio. "And yet he remains unaware of how precious he looks with his curly hair, wearing his sweatpants and slippers. I'm aware I am prone to flights of sentiment, particularly when it comes to my beloved, but I find him to be most capable of softening my heart to the point of full malleability when he looks so well-suited for the casual peace of our home. And comfortable enough with his present company to eschew hairbrushes. It is the very rare person who witnesses this side of Dettlaff, as there are very few people Dettlaff feels so comfortable with. You and I, Geralt, are lucky to comprise the majority of that minuscule group."   </p>
<p>"Really lucky," Geralt mumbles. He doesn't know why and how he got in the same luck and comfort category as Regis, or almost-kissing territory, or art-inspiration source, or backstory-confession intimacy, but he's thinking he should stop questioning it. He's all of that now, and Dettlaff has been telling him why all along. Geralt knows that Dettlaff only says what he means, and means everything he says. And yet Geralt has still been too skeptical to fully take all of Dettlaff's explanations at face value, or to trust that Dettlaff actually understands Geralt enough to know whether he deserves the honors bestowed upon him. But Dettlaff is observant; it's not like he hasn't noticed that Geralt's writing is bad, his appearance is strange, his life is a disaster, his personality is unpleasant, and he's in over his head with just about everything. Geralt <em>knows</em> he's not good at hiding any of that: it's his job to share his writing, his face and hair are clearly visible, he passed out drunk in the couple's guest bedroom after slurring out his relationship problems while slumped on them, and he also told them about how he doesn't deserve his book deal. So Dettlaff knows there's a lot wrong with Geralt. Regis knows that too. Geralt thinks the couple might also be starting to understand that he's into them, <em>really</em> into them, and they haven't fled from that yet either. Geralt doesn't want to get his hopes up, but it's seeming more and more possible that Dettlaff and Regis might not flee from him at all. Which would be, "Lucky." </p>
<p>Dettlaff returns to the table, carrying his sketchbook with his curls tucked even more messily behind his ear than when he left. Now that Geralt's specifically looking for them, he can't help but quirk his lips in a little bit of a smile at the stray hairs and the slightly worn patches in Dettlaff's sweatpants. Regis has a point about softened hearts and comfort and all that. He'd usually try to straighten out that smile when Dettlaff looks at him, but this time he doesn't. And Dettlaff gives him a tiny one in return. </p>
<p>"Look at the two of you. A tornado could go by, and you would only have eyes for each other." Regis chuckles. Geralt feels his ears flush with embarrassment, feeling very caught, both at Regis's teasing and the way Dettlaff looks amused by it. He remembers what Dettlaff said in the studio, about Regis liking when the two of them are close, but that doesn't decrease the embarrassment any. If anything, it makes it worse. For all Regis talks about Dettlaff flustering people, he's no better. "Well, I shan't tease the both of you for being saccharine, when I am just as guilty." </p>
<p>Dettlaff changes the topic pretty effectively by flipping open his sketchbook, directly to the right page as always, and then holding up a large and incredibly realistic charcoal drawing of The Caretaker. Even in sketch form, the thing sends a shiver down Geralt's spine. Any worries he'd had about his description not properly getting across the indescribable interdimensional horror of the relict vanish instantly. Its leathery eyeless face bears a gruesome ring of loose and bloody stitches, above a mouth with a hint of unpleasantly shaped teeth. Part of its visage is shadowed by the heavy hood of its cloak, which its humanlike hand is in the middle of pulling back. Geralt's suddenly glad that the disturbing paintings leaning against the wall of Dettlaff's studio prepared him to see disturbing art, because this sketch is very uncomfortable to look at. The readers will never forget it, that's for sure. So, all in all, it's perfect. </p>
<p>"That's horrifying," Geralt says, unable to pull his stare away from The Caretaker. "It's perfect. Really makes you go: <em>what the fuck was that?</em>" </p>
<p>"Thank you. Horror and disbelief were the reactions I intended to elicit." Dettlaff closes his sketchbook, looking pleased. As much as Geralt loves the sketch, Dettlaff's photorealistic art style is a double-edged sword, and he's glad to see the creature go. "Tomorrow I plan to begin work on the final painting of the Frightener for Chapter 12." </p>
<p>"Can't wait to see it. Sketch looked great. So did the little one," Geralt says. Dettlaff sketched the massive desert-dwelling chimera as an extremely intimidating cross between a giant scorpion and a praying mantis, its empty bug eyes boring into the viewer, and it was a perfect depiction of the nearly invincible giant insect. But Dettlaff also drew Geralt an adorable small one, like the Cute Ekhidna; its razor-sharp pincer claws were round and dull, its menacingly glowing eyes were big and shiny, and its heavy-plated body was smooth and plump. Once again, Geralt was amazed by the skill it took for Dettlaff to turn a dangerous and unpleasant monster into something that looked like a plush toy. He printed out the friendly little Cute Frightener out and taped the paper up on the sheet-curtain over his home office window, next to the Cute Ekhidna. "Chapter 12 revisions - those were great too. Forgot to set a time to talk about those with you, Regis, but we can do that whenever you want. Won't take long."</p>
<p>Regis smiles at Geralt. "It would be my pleasure. Perhaps you would like to discuss them now? I devised a day of quiet and solitude to spend with my dear ones through truthful but slightly misleading means - that is to say, I told those who demanded my attention that it had been regretfully promised to others, but with the implication that this promise was of the professional sort that inescapably ties one's hands. Therefore, my dear one, I have as much time for you as you'd like to occupy." </p>
<p>"Sure. I could discuss some revisions." Geralt pauses a moment before reaching his hand across the table without being given a cue. He figures that maybe people Regis considers dear ones, and clears days for, don't need a cue to get their hands touched. Regis's eyes are warm and pleased when he takes Geralt's hand in both of his and clasps it between them. "Got plenty of time for the two of you, too." </p>
<p>"Then I would be honored if you'd spend it in my office, where I have a copy of the newest version of Chapter 12. I understand that the words <em>step into my office</em> may sound formal or intimidating coming from an editor and former professor, but I assure you, it is a casual setting with an abundance of paper clutter and plants." Regis squeezes Geralt's hand, then looks up at Dettlaff. "Dettlaff, my love, would you mind clearing the dishes? You are invited to join us, of course, but it does occur to me that we might prefer not to re-emerge to an array of food gradually passing its prime." </p>
<p>"Of course." Dettlaff strides over to lean down and give Regis another deep and slow kiss, this time cupping the back of his head in one big hand. The way Regis's hands tighten around Geralt's as he gets drawn further into the kiss has Geralt feeling hot in a way he really shouldn't be feeling at his colleagues' breakfast table. But Dettlaff immediately looks at Geralt once he pulls his mouth away from Regis's, searching his face intensely, and that gives Geralt the sense that said colleagues intended to make him feel something situationally inappropriate. Or, if they intended him to feel it, then maybe it <em>is</em> situationally appropriate. The point is, Geralt is a little bit turned on, and it's really unclear whether that's a good or bad thing. "I will join you once I finish, dear ones." </p>
<p>"Come along, Geralt." Regis is up from the table and heading towards his office before Geralt's suddenly snail-pace brain can process it, and by then, it's too late for him to offer to help clean up breakfast without keeping Regis sitting around in his office waiting. But maybe that's for the best, since if Geralt's near the leftover food while Dettlaff's trying to put it somewhere that isn't the table, Dettlaff might try to feed it to him until he pops. Geralt gives Dettlaff another smile, a look that's starting to feel more natural on his face, before trailing after Regis. Regis is already talking about the Frightener, so Geralt hurries to catch up in time to hear, "- and the alarm I felt when I saw that praying mantis on the windowsill! I had just been reading a bit from another manuscript I'm editing, where the villains are wizards capable of teleportation, and it occurred to me that such a wizard could materialize at any time to turn the praying mantis into a Frightener. A truly disconcerting thought. There is much about the universe we don't know, after all." </p>
<p>"Sure is." Geralt shakes his head. He realizes that, with the way he went straight from Dettlaff to Regis, the smile never left his face. </p>
<p>Regis's office is as paper-cluttered and plant-filled as he described it, with more furniture than Geralt would've expected from his brief peek into it during his initial tour. The computer desk is long enough to span the whole left wall of the room, with stacks of manuscripts and green pens that go from one side to the other with brief breaks for the computer monitor, its keyboard and mouse, a mug, and somewhere to scribble the cursive notes that seem to fill every paper in the piles. The plants that sit on various levels of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf across the right wall and a little table in front of it are all varieties that like shade, which makes sense given the thick grey curtains covering the thin windows on the far wall. That table has plump but aging armchairs on either side of it, which restrict the motion of Regis's wheeled desk chair to a few inches at most. Geralt's glad he's not prone to claustrophobia, given the minimal amount of free space left in the room that was small to begin with. Figuring he's supposed to be in one of the armchairs, Geralt places himself on the one closest to the door as Regis sits down in his desk chair. </p>
<p>"My humble editor's atelier," Regis says, with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "Perhaps I should have warned you about the size as well as the clutter. It may be for the best that Dettlaff isn't joining us with immediacy, since three is far more than company in a space like this. In any case, your presence has resolved the paradoxical nature of my sanctuary - the furniture would suggest that I regularly host guests, and yet, I tend to restrict my visitors to Dettlaff and the occasional colleague. And now, of course, yourself. Should the lack of breathing room not be too objectionable to you, feel free to return at any time. Now, shall we begin our literary discussion?" </p>
<p>"Sounds good." Geralt looks at the potted fern on the table in front of him, thinking about how to start. That's a little complicated, because, "Revisions were great. You cleaned it up a lot. Sounded smooth and made a lot of sense. Only thing is - hm. Guess it's a comment about all the revisions so far, the twelve chapters you did, all put together. The whole book." </p>
<p>"Go on." Regis looks concerned, leaning forward with his chin propped on his elbow. Geralt feels bad, because he doesn't want to concern Regis, and he didn't think his comment would be concerning. But now, the more he thinks about that comment, the more he realizes that expressing it could go over really badly if he doesn't phrase it right. He gets what Regis meant now, about the wording in the poem being critical. As usual, Geralt didn't plan out what to say. And, as usual, he really should've. That uncertainty must show on his face, because Regis's lips press together tightly for a moment before he speaks in a more professional voice than Geralt's heard from him in a long time. "Please be as blunt and honest as you possibly can, Geralt. If this is something large-scale, we must address it fully and in its entirety as soon as possible. As you well know, the deadline is fast upon us." </p>
<p>Fuck, Geralt upset Regis. He didn't mean to. And he doesn't want to upset him further. Regis didn't do anything <em>wrong</em>, he didn't do anything he <em>shouldn't</em> have done, and honestly, it's something Geralt should've noticed sooner. If he didn't notice it sooner, then that means it isn't a real problem. The point is, bringing this up is seeming like more of a mistake by the second. So Geralt really regrets saying anything, and wishes he could take it back. But now that Geralt's mentioned a comment, especially one that affects the entire book, Regis isn't going to let it go. Since there's no backing out, Geralt has to admit that Regis is right. He needs to get this out there, while they can still talk it out. </p>
<p>"Not a problem, exactly. Just... different than I expected. The revised chapters - didn't see it at first, reading them one by one, but when I put them all together, I noticed something." Geralt shifts uncomfortably in the armchair as Regis's tightly-pressed lips turn down a little like he's trying not to frown. He tries again to gather his thoughts, in a way that doesn't sound like he's accusing Regis of messing up or saying there's something he didn't do a good job with. "The writing's good, really cleaned up, flows well. Nothing wrong with it. Only thing is, it sounds like me telling the story." </p>
<p>"Yes, it does. It's your book." Regis's eyebrows furrow, and he doesn't seem to be understanding why that isn't what Geralt expected. Which makes a lot of sense. Geralt probably didn't do a good job of explaining to Regis what he wanted, meaning this is on him, and that makes him regret bringing it up even more. "My apologies, Geralt - I'm not certain what the disconnect with your expectations is. Would you mind explaining it in more depth?" </p>
<p>"This is on me. Makes sense that I couldn't explain what I wanted, if I didn't even know what I was asking for." Geralt looks back at the sloping green leaves of the fern, because the look on Regis's face is making something in his chest feel miserable. "Never mind. Forget I said anything. It's stupid. Just thought it'd sound like a fantasy novel. One of those ones about knights and princesses and dragons, the ones people talk about escaping into. But it sounds like me." </p>
<p>"I don't mean to invalidate your feelings or your perceptions, my dearest. That's the last thing I would want to do, both as your editor and as someone who cares deeply for you. But may I ask if anything about it doesn't sound like a fantasy novel, save for the influence of your voice?" Regis sounds like he's trying to walk the same thin line Geralt was, between needing to say something touchy and not wanting to say it badly, but coming down harder on the side of needing to say the touchy thing. "I don't mean to condescend or suppress your opinion through a claim to authority, but my next statement may give that impression - please know that is unintentional, but an unfortunate and inescapable effect of an appeal to credentials. Geralt, I am an editor of literary work in the fantasy genre at the top publishing house for said genre, and have been so for nearly a decade. During my tenure, I have studied and worked on a wide variety of novels and short story collections ranging from high fantasy to fantasy-influenced. At risk of inflating my own ego, I would consider myself an expert on what fantasy novels sound like. Leaving aside the endless varieties and elements and narrative voices that could potentially comprise a fantasy novel - following our lengthy discussion at the beginning of our collaboration, and our ongoing conversations throughout, I believed I understood the variant you were aiming for. I have strived to deliver, to the best of my abilities. Have I misunderstood, or fallen short in any area that is not related to the narrative presence of the authorial Geralt Bellegarde?" </p>
<p>"No," Geralt says. He's tempted to bristle a little, because Regis was right about the unfortunate side effect of sounding like he's claiming the high ground, but Regis is also right about knowing what he's doing. And he can't say Regis actually did misunderstand the kind of fantasy he was aiming for, or fall short in anything related to that. So Regis has, with complete precision, pulled out the root of the issue. "That's it. It sounds like the fantasy novel I wanted, but with me telling it. I didn't think it'd sound like me. That's the problem, I guess. I didn't... want it to sound like me." </p>
<p>The admission hangs in the air for a moment. It's awkward. Even the fern Geralt is staring at looks like it feels awkward. It's painful. And then Regis says, "My dearest Geralt, whyever would you not want it to sound like you?" </p>
<p>"Because I can't write. I can't write for shit. Every fucking draft I've given you - why <em>would</em> I want the book to sound like that?" Geralt drops his eyes to his hands in his lap, fidgeting with his sleeves. "Didn't want the book to sound like someone who can't write. So. I didn't want it to sound like any of the drafts I gave you. I didn't want it to sound like <em>me</em>." </p>
<p>"Oh, my love." Regis's voice has that sad sympathy in it, the kind Geralt sometimes sees on his face but can't figure out. Hearing it in this context, it's starting to click together what it might mean. Between the situation and the sympathy and the miserable feeling in his chest, Geralt is numb to Regis calling him <em>love</em>. "I don't suppose another appeal to my credentials and experience will do any good here, nor will an assessment of the quality of your writing. Correct me if I am wrong, as I am happy to do anything that might disabuse you of the painful and untrue conclusion that is the apparent culmination of your continuous stream of self-deprecating notions. But, as I have been assessing your writing with the full force of my credentials and experience for nearly a year, I suspect one additional attempt will not succeed in uprooting another of the cruel beliefs about yourself that I have been attempting to dispel for the entirety of that time." </p>
<p>Geralt has to keep from flinching. He can physically feel the effect of Regis's words, the way they've hit the dead center of an internal target he didn't know he had. Regis isn't wrong about the <em>continuous stream of self-deprecating notions</em>, but hearing it flat-out said like that is a little harsh. So that's what the sympathetic look was: Regis spotting a <em>cruel belief</em> to <em>attempt to dispel</em>. It's so fucking obvious, now. Geralt should've seen it, but he couldn't. It took Regis making an arrow out of his kind honesty and shooting a forceful bullseye into the middle of Geralt's obvious emotional shield. The one that said those self-deprecating notions and cruel beliefs were just true observations, and so it was fine to let them bubble along in a continuous stream. No point in thinking less about the truth. Regis is right, that going on about being an experienced editor while trying to tell him he can write worth shit wouldn't help. So Geralt fidgets with his sleeve, and mumbles, "No good." </p>
<p>"Then I shall not waste either of our time with such an attempt. Since conversations regarding your writing quality and self-image have proved pointless, I will not persist in fighting a losing battle." Regis's voice is definitive, and that shoots an arrow through something else inside Geralt entirely. The thing that's been telling him this whole time that Regis wouldn't consider him worth his time or effort if he knew how awful he truly was, and Dettlaff wouldn't either. "Stand up, Geralt." </p>
<p>So this is it. The thing Geralt has always known was coming, had himself braced for, and then decided to forget about. He was stupid earlier, thinking Regis and Dettlaff had probably figured out the depths of his failures and weren't running. He let his guard down. Geralt knew, this whole fucking time, that he'd eventually go too far or reveal a little too much and they'd do what they should've done from the beginning and cut him loose. Free themselves of the burden. He knew that, and he'd started to let go of that knowledge, because he loved them. And he fucked that love up. Funny that the thing that finally pushed Regis over the tipping point was something Geralt almost didn't say, something they could've made it to publication and beyond without ever addressing, but Geralt couldn't be satisfied enough with Regis's hard work to keep his stupid mouth shut. Maybe if Geralt could write for shit, he wouldn't have been so fucking awful at phrasing his <em>comment</em> - but then again, there was never a right way to phrase something that shouldn't have been said. </p>
<p>Geralt can't fucking believe he tried to blame Regis for not disguising his failures enough, when the problem is him. It's always been him. It's been him over and over, again and again. He was the problem when Yennefer left him because he was stressed and tired and lost in life, and instead of doing something to improve his circumstances, he made her deal with his sulking and his attitude. He was the problem when Emhyr had to go to Tissaia de Vries and force himself to defend the indefensibly bad email he sent to Fairy Light Press, because Geralt was stupid and naive and doing the bare minimum of research never occurred to him, so he made every mistake he possibly could and ensured he would never get anywhere on his own. He was the problem when Ciri had to live in poverty for the first few years he had custody of her, because Geralt couldn't make enough money to give her everything she deserved, so he made her eat cheap unappetizing meals and wear sale-rack clothes that didn't quite fit. Geralt has been the problem ever since parenting him was so unbearable that both his mother and father abandoned him - and the ugly truth is, his unbearableness started the minute he was born. Geralt doesn't know why he thought this time could be any different. That, after a whole lifetime of inflicting his failings on everyone else, he <em>finally</em> wouldn't be a problem. </p>
<p>"I'm sorry, Regis. Shouldn't have said anything. Didn't know what I was talking about. Shouldn't have blamed you." Geralt stands up like he's told, keeping his eyes on the floor and feeling pitiful at the way his shoulders are too heavy not to slump. His feet are going to feel just as heavy on the way out the door, but he won't stay anywhere he's not wanted. And of course <em>he</em> was never wanted here - not the full extent of <em>him</em>. The Geralt that Regis and Dettlaff <em>thought</em> they saw was wanted, not the one that's a bottomless abyss of issues who's far too in love with them. Geralt accepted that up until today, but the couple kissed each other a few times and Dettlaff maybe-almost-kissed Geralt and that was enough for him to let himself forget. Geralt is so stupid. So fucking stupid. He doesn't know why he allowed himself to forget that <em>too good to be true</em> is just that - too good to be true. All of this, everything that's happened in the past year, has been too good to be true for a mess like him. A pathetic, unwanted, fucked-up, undeserving, burdensome mess like him. A mess that ruins everything. A mess that always has to be <em>a problem</em>. "My fault. Not yours. I'm sorry." </p>
<p>"Come here, my love," Regis says. Geralt stands frozen as Regis hugs him. It's so unexpected that Geralt doesn't know what to do, what to think. How to process it. Regis maneuvers Geralt gently, wrapping an arm around his waist and then pressing Geralt's face into the crook of his neck. He smells like earthy cologne with a hint of pancake batter. Geralt stays where he's put, helpless and confused, as Regis holds him tightly to his chest and strokes his hair. "It's alright, Geralt. No apologies. No blame, and no fault. It's alright, dear one. Everything is alright." </p>
<p>Geralt suddenly becomes aware of the trembling of his body and the heaviness of his breaths and the quickness of his heartbeat as Regis cradles him close, instead of pushing him away. Everything about this is so off from what he expected that it feels shaky, unsteady, like it isn't really happening. He mumbles into Regis's neck, "It's not." </p>
<p>"You're right, my dearest. I suppose it's not. It's not alright that you thought I would be angry at you for expressing your feelings about our collaboration. It's not alright that you think your feelings aren't valid. It's not alright that you incessantly abuse yourself.   It's not alright that you cannot be convinced you don't deserve that self-abuse. And it's not alright that you think your own book shouldn't sound like you." Regis keeps stroking Geralt's hair, slow and even, giving him a rhythm to breathe to. Geralt gradually brings an arm up to wrap around Regis's back, to hold himself steady as the world remains shaky around him. "Persuasive words cannot get through to you, that much is clear, or Dettlaff and I would have long ago put to rest these painful ways you tear yourself down. So, I would like to put on the record that I disagree with every single one of your negative thoughts about yourself, and then attempt a strategy that I suspect may prove more successful - drawing your attention to my actions. Will you permit me to do that?" </p>
<p>Geralt nods, face still buried in Regis's neck, grateful that he's being allowed to hide it during this conversation. His head feels both light and heavy at once, and he doesn't think he'd be able to hold it up without Regis's shoulder supporting it. Regis doesn't say anything, and Geralt realizes he's waiting for a verbal confirmation. So he agrees with a short, "Mhm." </p>
<p>"Splendid." Regis brushes Geralt's hair aside to cup the back of his neck with a gentle hand, rubbing a spot just under the back of his ear with his thumb. It feels so comforting, and so tender, that Geralt clutches into the back of Regis's shirt as an anchor. "My actions were as follows. I could have completely rewritten your book to sound nothing like you. By your own admission, you would have been happy with it. And yet, with every single draft you sent me, I agonized as much over the phrasing of my revisions as I agonized over the phrasing of my poem for you. I wanted to clean up the writing, as you put it, and deliver on your escapist fantasy vision - but, crucially, I wanted to keep as much of your voice in it as I possibly could. At times, it would have been far simpler to entirely remake a chapter in my own words and my own style, but I refused to do so. In part because a good editor never seeks to erase the author's voice, merely to enhance it. And in part because, had I done that, the book would have suffered greatly for it. A good editor also ensures that the writing style of the book fits the subject matter. With every new chapter you sent me, it became clearer and clearer that for the book to be the absolute best it could be, it had to be in your style. It had to sound like <em>you</em>. It would have been an unimaginable loss for the book, had your voice been erased." </p>
<p>Geralt remembers his first attempt at storytelling, back when he was a child. The night before he was moved from his first foster home to his second one, he sat on the front porch of the old woman who always told him monster stories and tried telling one of them back to her. She hugged him and told him that she hoped he kept telling stories wherever he went, and he hugged her back and told her that he hoped someone would tell them to him too. Geralt remembers how he contributed to the conversations he had with the man who ran the corner store near that second home, who told him the stories he'd hoped he'd hear, and helped the man turn their interactions into journeys through a mysterious world. Geralt remembers how he sat for hours with the town historian who worked out of the building a few blocks from his third foster home, sharing his lore knowledge with as much drama and intrigue as he could. </p>
<p>Geralt remembers how he dreamed of being a storyteller when he was a preteen, and how he'd practice telling cryptid legends to shampoo bottles in the shower. Geralt remembers how he kept practicing when he was a teenager, switching over to telling the stories silently to an imaginary audience in his head while he was waiting to fall asleep in bed at night, because he'd realized his voice was too unpleasant and his presence was too offputting for him to ever have a real human audience. Geralt remembers finally telling stories out loud again, when little ten year old Ciri woke up terrified from nightmares and he didn't know what else to do to soothe her. Geralt remembers starting to write those stories down for his book, because Ciri wanted to read them. </p>
<p>That's when Geralt puts something together: he's writing this book because Ciri wants to read his stories, and she wants to read them the way Geralt tells them. If Geralt's book doesn't sound like him, it won't be the book Ciri wants. And Geralt remembers Ciri telling him about the Bruxa of Corvo Bianco, describing her appearance and her hand theft on that sunny Sansretour Valley afternoon. He remembers the storytelling style Ciri's developed, the one that reminded Geralt of the old woman who used to weave narratives straight from the heart on her porch. The one that sounded kind of like Geralt. Geralt realizes that, by thinking his natural style should've been erased to make a better book, he'd been indirectly implying that woman's style wouldn't have been good enough either - and neither would Ciri's. Geralt would've been erasing not only his own voice, but the voices of everyone who taught him and everyone who learned from him. </p>
<p>And Regis understood that. Because Regis has faith in Geralt, and because Regis sees through Geralt's layers of self-disparagement and finds something worthy that Geralt has never seen in his own core, Regis was able to understand something that he wasn't even fully aware of. So Regis made sure they produced a book that fit Geralt's end goal: to give Ciri the book she wants. And Ciri wants a book that sounds like the stories she loves most.  </p>
<p>"Ciri would want it to be like this. The way you edited it. You're right," Geralt finally says, slowly raising his head up from Regis's shoulder and letting go of the back of his shirt. "Thanks, Regis. For knowing better than me."  </p>
<p>"It's my job. But more than that, it's my responsibility. And my honor." Regis smiles, helping Geralt straighten up and then brushing his messy hair out of his face. Regis frees whatever hasn't already escaped from Geralt's slipping half-ponytail, and takes his time combing the strands out with his sharp-nailed fingers and stroking them smooth before tying them back up. He rubs Geralt's temples with the pads of his thumbs for a bit, then works his way down to do the same to Geralt's cheekbones. Geralt is too mentally exhausted to process the distinct sensations, but he knows they feel really good. By the time Regis gives his shoulders a few firm squeezes, Geralt isn't shaking anymore. His breathing has slowed down and shallowed out, his heartbeat has evened, and he feels lighter overall. He doesn't feel like he's on solid ground yet, but things feel real again. Regis feels real, and his care feels real. His kindness feels real. His affection feels real. And the praise he gives Geralt feels genuine. Regis continues to smile, and says, "You trusted me with your story, Geralt. I had to do right by your story, and I had to do right by you." </p>
<p>"You did," Geralt says. His voice is hoarse, even though he hasn't been talking much. "You did more right by the story than anyone else. Including me. Did right by me, too."    </p>
<p>"I want to do everything I can for you, my love. Dettlaff does as well. Whether we are editing and illustrating your book, or offering you a place in our home and our lives, or telling you the countless things we love about you in hopes that one day our efforts to convince you that you deserve every kind word spoken to you will not be futile - we will continue to do everything we can for you. If you will let us." Regis hugs Geralt again and holds him securely to his chest, sensing that Geralt will need to be held after hearing that promise, and he's right. </p>
<p>Geralt wants to doubt Regis means it, or that Dettlaff would also mean it. He wants to believe Regis and Dettlaff don't know what they're offering, or they don't know Geralt's not worth it, or they don't know any one of a million things. But Regis somehow knows Geralt's true desires for his book, Geralt's feelings about himself, and the ways Geralt needs to be cared for, better than Geralt does. Dettlaff somehow knows what every millimeter of Geralt's face looks like, how Geralt wants to be treated with strength and care, and what makes Geralt's chest fill with a beautiful warmth, better than Geralt does. After looking at all of that together, and hearing that promise laid out so openly and plainly, Geralt is having a hard time believing his own insistence that Dettlaff and Regis don't know enough or don't understand enough or wouldn't care enough. </p>
<p>"I will," Geralt mumbles into Regis's shoulder. "I'll let you." </p>
<p>Regis squeezes Geralt in reply, tightly and protectively. It helps to press back together the way Geralt's raw heart has been ripped open and laid bare, finally providing an opportunity for someone - or two someones - to fully enter into it. </p>
<p>After a long time, Geralt pulls away, and Regis pats him kindly on the arm. "Let's go onto the balcony, shall we? The weather is crisp, but pleasant. And I think we could use some fresh air." </p>
<p>Geralt nods. Fresh air sounds good, and a wide open space sounds even better. Geralt's not claustrophobic, but with the way the long desk and the tall bookshelf feel like they've started to compress the tiny office even further, he decides he's had enough of small cluttered places for the day. And with how heavy the air in the room has become, thick with fear and comfort and panic and love, Geralt needs to breathe somewhere else. Regis leads Geralt out of the room with an arm around his shoulders, keeping him on his feet, and the high ceilings and expansive area of the apartment are an instant relief. The sun and sky through the windows make Geralt feel a little less stuck in that haze of overwhelming emotion. </p>
<p>Dettlaff abandons the cabinet organizing he's doing in the kitchen, not bothering to close the cabinet door, and crosses the distance in a few long strides to put a hand on Geralt's arm. With how quickly Dettlaff moves, and the concern on his face, Geralt knows it must be obvious that his balance and his mind are unsteady. Geralt's heart is still torn open, the edges ragged and sensitive, waiting for Dettlaff. He looks into Dettlaff's beautiful blue eyes, asking an unformulated question with his own malformed yellow eyes that Dettlaff sees gold in, and Dettlaff understands what he needs. Dettlaff pulls Geralt into a firm and comforting embrace, Regis shifting positions to allow it, and that's enough to seal Geralt's heart the rest of the way up. His heart carries two more people in it now, right in the center of it, and it's whole again. Held between the couple like this, Geralt feels stable. </p>
<p>"We're heading out for some air," Regis says, after Geralt's gotten what he needed from Dettlaff's hug. "Join us?" </p>
<p>"Of course," Dettlaff replies. He releases Geralt and then moves to wrap an arm around his waist, falling into step seamlessly with Geralt and Regis as they begin to walk again. Geralt doesn't ask what direction they're going, and lets the two of them lead. The balcony is adjoined to Regis and Dettlaff's bedroom, it turns out, which explains why Geralt didn't know they had a balcony. That means they have to go through the couple's bedroom to get to it. Geralt is too dazed to look around, which is probably for the best. Dettlaff pushes the balcony door open, and guides Geralt outside.</p>
<p>The view from the balcony is incredible, unimpeded for an impressive distance, and Geralt scans it with interest after he's done with his usual routine of blinking heavily until his catlike pupils contract enough to tolerate bright sunlight. The detailing on the exterior facades of the nearby buildings are more visible from this perch, as is the old North Daevon clock tower. A raven swoops by, close enough for Geralt to get a good look at it, and then continues along its path under the vibrant blue sky. Dettlaff and Regis set Geralt down in one of the two balcony chairs, where he settles back and sighs in content. Regis takes the other chair, and Dettlaff sits on the surprisingly sturdy table that faces them with his back to the balcony railing. Dettlaff's eyes look so beautiful in this lighting that Geralt suddenly understands the artist's desire to paint the things that capture his interest. </p>
<p>"What a lovely day," Regis says, smiling as he watches the raven fly off into the distance. "The weather called for rain within the hour, but the morning's conditions are holding up quite nicely. Isn't that so, Geralt?" </p>
<p>"Yeah. Gorgeous," Geralt replies. Regis chuckles, Dettlaff smirks, and then Geralt realizes with a rush of mortification that he was looking directly at Dettlaff's eyes while making that observation. But since Geralt feels the same way about Dettlaff's eyes, and smacking himself in the face would be more awkward than going with it, he tries giving Dettlaff a little smirk of his own to see what happens. </p>
<p>"My, my." Regis chuckles again, as Dettlaff holds Geralt's gaze with a steadily intensifying energy that has a bit of heat in it. "So the charmer becomes the charmed. You are quite the flirt, Geralt. You should direct your talents towards Dettlaff more often - perhaps, with a bit of effort, the flusterer could become the flustered." </p>
<p>"I welcome your efforts," Dettlaff says, in that low and smooth voice, without breaking the eye contact. And, just like that, he's got the upper hand again. Geralt's forced to look away first, feeling heated. That's what he gets for flirting with Dettlaff <em>to see what happens</em>. Apparently, what happens is that both members of the couple tell him they want him to flirt with Dettlaff and then he gets stared down in an intimidatingly sexy way. Geralt should've known better. He should've stuck to semi-unintentionally staring at Dettlaff's chest and ass. "I encourage them." </p>
<p>"Yeah. Well. Watch out," Geralt tries again, looking back up to give Dettlaff an attempt at another smirk. "If you two encourage me too much, I might end up telling you I've got a thing for people with gorgeous eyes who feed me. Might even tell you how I feel about tall people who pick me up and carry me, or tall people who play with my hair and hug me. In case there's two people nearby who fit any of those criteria." </p>
<p>"Perhaps we should encourage you. It would be a shame to let your charm go to waste," Regis replies, sounding very amused as Geralt ruins the charm he mustered by dropping his eyes to the floor of the balcony in embarrassment. "And perhaps you should encourage us too. We might tell you how we feel about handsome authors with similarly gorgeous eyes. In particular, ones that are kind-hearted and make excellent companions and provide us with feelings of safety and trust. After all, we would not offer constant access to our home, or unlimited companionship, or painful stories from the darkest parts of our lives, to just any gorgeous-eyed author." </p>
<p>"I appreciate all that, by the way. In case I didn't say it." Geralt looks at Regis, and then at Dettlaff. "Letting me visit. Spending time with me. Telling me about what happened, back then. Don't have to tell me the rest, if you don't want to. But if you ever want to, I'm happy to listen to whatever you want to say." </p>
<p>Regis and Dettlaff exchange a look. It's one of those long looks that contains a whole conversation, the kind of conversation that Geralt can't fully decipher yet but thinks that maybe one day he'll be able to. And then Regis says, "We should tell you the rest. Speaking frankly, if you're to be an even more significant part of our lives in the future - rest assured, our dearest, you are already a very significant part of our lives in the present - these are things you really should know. Perhaps sooner, rather than later. Though, as you've been through quite a lot today - I should apologize for, to phrase it indelicately, putting you through the emotional wringer with very little warning and very little delicacy - this may not be the ideal moment to discuss matters of further emotional weight -" </p>
<p>"Might as well get it all out there," Geralt says, and shrugs. "If it's emotional wringer stuff, seems like it'd be better to deal with it while we're already in the wringer. Get it all over with, so we don't have to crawl back in." </p>
<p>"Very sensible," Dettlaff agrees, after taking a moment to assess the logic. </p>
<p>"That does seem rather more efficient than dragging the process out," Regis affirms. "Particularly when we cannot properly move forward together until that process is complete. Very astute, Geralt. We shall proceed accordingly." </p>
<p>It's quiet for a while, aside from the chirping of birds or soft wisping of wind. It seems that, like a lot of decisions, this one was easier to make than follow through with. Given the subject matter, though, Geralt was expecting that. He's not too sure what Dettlaff and Regis will tell him about, but considering what he already knows about them and the fact that whatever he's about to hear goes even deeper than that, he's assuming it will be some pretty deep stuff. So Geralt sits silently with the couple, letting them take their time, and waiting until they're ready. He looks up at the blue sky above them, and the city stretched out in front of them. Eventually, the North Daevon clock tower begins to chime. </p>
<p>Regis clears his throat once the tolling of the bell stops. Then he says, "I would like to remind you again, Geralt, that I am in a very, very different place now than I was twelve years ago. In fact, everything in my life is vastly different: a new location, a new career, a new set of circumstances, a new purpose, and a new support system of people that care for me. So, please bear that in mind as I address certain - how did I describe the omitted specifics, when last we spoke of this topic - ah. Gruesome and ghastly details. Culiminating in a near-death experience. Geralt, I must assure you that you should have no concerns about a potential repeat of the events I am about to recount to you, as it would be highly unlikely for them to occur in my current circumstances, and I have no desire at all for them to repeat. Will you accept my assurance?" </p>
<p>Geralt nods. But since Regis isn't looking at him, his soft black eyes shadowed by a furrowed brow and fixed on some unknown point in the distance, Geralt adds in a quick, "Mhm." </p>
<p>"I shall be blunt, as there is no delicate way to speak of such matters, and none of the three of us would be well-served by such an attempt," Regis says. "I previously narrated, in some detail, my descent into the chronic abuse of my botanical medicine concoctions. And I provided you with the justifications I used to deny, on an intellectual level, what I knew to be true: that my actions were in the service of feeding an addiction that was leading me down a destructive and dangerous path. The step beyond what I have told you thus far is an extension of those two things: my addiction led me to the end of that path, and due to the web of justifications I was inescapably spinning around my mind and reality at that point in time, I cannot say why I reached it.  The end I speak of was a potentially fatal overdose of Resonance - the most powerful hallucinogenic I have ever concocted, and by far the most toxic potion I have ever brewed. Perhaps the overdose was caused by a careless mistake on my part. Perhaps it was an intentional choice. I will never truly know, as I cannot fully parse nor trust the contents of my mind from that point in time; the truths are inextricably tangled with the fictions I constructed to deny them. After years of reflection, and efforts to untangle what I can, I believe the most likely answer is a combination of both - a mistake caused by a partially intentional carelessness." </p>
<p>Geralt understands what Regis means by that.</p>
<p>"I was not clear of mind, and I was as high on my own hubris as I was on my own potions. I was pushing boundaries that had never been pushed by alchemists before, leading me into uncharted territory. Slips or miscalculations in highly experimental brews were both likely and frequent, as I was toeing lines that had not yet been drawn.  The same can be said for the increases in the doses I imbibed: the tipping points, both in regards to the effects of the concoctions and the limits of my tolerance, were undiscovered and ever-shifting. I danced constantly with boundaries, and as such, this sort of thing could have happened unintentionally at any given moment. For these reasons, I can say with confidence that my potentially lethal overdose was not fully intentional." Regis pauses at this point, then his brow furrows more deeply. "But perhaps you can see that the strongest argument for the accidental nature of my near-death is also the strongest argument for its intentional carelessness. That I had willingly accepted the fact that I could take one step too far and topple over a fatal edge at any given moment, and continued to take that risk with impunity, illustrates how little I valued my survival at that time. And I was deeply, desperately unhappy. Taking these two things together, I'm certain you can reach the same inference I did. That inference is all I will ever truly have." </p>
<p>Geralt can reach that same inference. </p>
<p>"It was Dettlaff who found me on the floor of my laboratory," Regis continues. "I had a marvelous laboratory, and all the equipment and ingredients and research assistants I could ever want, generously provided by the university at which I was faculty. They were happy to provide me with anything and everything I requested, and equally happy to look the other way regarding some of my more questionable methods, as long as I continued to produce groundbreaking research and scholarship that they could associate themselves with. In the end, it was their reckless enabling that led them to permanently lose their prize academic to the world of fiction editing - but I digress. Dettlaff stopped by my lab at the university to surprise me with a present for the one month anniversary of our romantic relationship - a book on rare Nazairian herbs. Unfortunately, it was I who provided Dettlaff the true herb-related surprise." </p>
<p>Geralt looks at Dettlaff and is caught off guard by the agony in his eyes, so strong that he thinks this story might hurt Dettlaff to hear more than it hurts Regis to tell. </p>
<p>"Dettlaff could have chosen to limit his involvement in the matter," Regis says. "After calling for medical assistance, he could have left me in the capable hands of the professionals and departed until I was in functional condition. But Dettlaff accompanied my unconscious, wheezing, poison-and-vomit-covered husk to the hospital. He remained by my side at every moment he was permitted to be there, for the full duration of my hospital stay. And he remained by my side through every part of my recovery from addiction that followed: physical ailments, mental distress, emotional struggles, existential crisis, and dramatic career change. What any other person may have seen as the cause for an insurmountable debt of gratitude, Dettlaff saw as a gift of service. Dettlaff served as my companion, my nurse, my foundation, my support, my friend - and, ultimately, my future lifelong partner. The love of my life, and any lifetimes that may follow."</p>
<p>Geralt doesn't know what to say. He doesn't have the words to express any of his feelings, but for once, that's fine. This isn't Geralt's story, and he doesn't need to add his words to it. </p>
<p>"Dettlaff, my love, my dearest. Come here," Regis murmurs, standing up and holding his arms out. Dettlaff gets up immediately and falls into Regis's arms, looking distraught in a way that Geralt's never seen him before. He'd known how deeply Dettlaff and Regis love each other, and how deeply they care about each other, but the sheer expansiveness of Dettlaff's unconditional love and care is awe-inspiring. From Dettlaff's willingness to do anything to help the man he had only been dating for one month at the time, to how shaken he is to be reminded of the pain Regis had endured after an entire decade, the devotion that Dettlaff is capable of is nearly overwhelming. Watching Regis comfort Dettlaff so instinctively, and hearing that part of their story, has Geralt almost aching with how much more deeply he's fallen in love with the couple. "We're here, my love. I'm here, and Geralt's here."</p>
<p>Geralt is left dazed when Dettlaff nods and slowly lets go of Regis, looking at his partner and then at Geralt like both of their presences are equally comforting to him. Geralt offers Dettlaff a small smile, and Dettlaff nods in return, shaky but steadying. Geralt tries to stand up to hug Dettlaff, but his knee lets out a painful twinge and then starts to seize up. Dettlaff quickly puts one hand on Geralt's shoulder to keep him from getting up, and then pulls forward the table he was sitting on so that he's close enough to hold Geralt's hand when he sits back down. Geralt strokes Dettlaff's hand with his thumb, the same way Regis does to him, and is rewarded with a open and heartfelt smile. </p>
<p>It's silent again for a while, just the wind and the birds. </p>
<p>"I owe Regis as much," Dettlaff finally says. He frowns, his brow furrowing as his eyes fix on a leaf on the balcony floor, and the light wrinkles in his forehead deepen. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to explain something that, no matter how hard he tries, can never be explained well. Eventually, Dettlaff settles on, "I was forced to kill." </p>
<p>Geralt's heart skips a beat, and his body freezes up. That kind of admission is pretty startling. But, while most people would be even more startled by that statement coming from Dettlaff - the intensity in his icy blue eyes and the roughness of his deep voice when he plainly stated that he's a murderer would be terrifying to just about anyone - the fact that it's Dettlaff makes Geralt recover a lot more quickly from the revelation. Dettlaff doesn't seem like a cold-blooded killer, who goes around taking lives for sport; with how deeply emotional and caring Dettlaff is, Geralt is inclined to believe him when he says he was forced into it. The Dettlaff that Geralt knows is soft, gentle, and nurturing. He nursed Regis back to health, despite barely knowing him, and still becomes overwhelmingly upset while recalling Regis's agony a whole decade later. Geralt isn't naive enough to think that soft and caring people never kill for bad reasons, or that kind-hearted people don't snap and do terrible things. Dettlaff could very well be one of those people. But, in this case, Geralt trusts that Dettlaff really felt he had no choice. </p>
<p>"Happens, sometimes," Geralt says. Dettlaff is giving him that searching stare, the one that scrutinizes him for his reaction, with a wariness that makes it clear he's looking specifically for a negative reaction. Horror, judgement, disgust, loathing, something that suggests Geralt thinks Dettlaff is a monster for what he's done. But Dettlaff won't find any of those things on Geralt's face, no matter how hard he looks for them, because Geralt doesn't feel any of them. Geralt knows there are valid reasons to kill. And he knows very, very well that a person can be forced into doing things they abhor - like taking human lives. He knows that much better than he'd ever want to. "You had a reason."  </p>
<p>"I did," Dettlaff replies, and then his eyes fill with an agonizing sorrow. His hand starts to withdraw from Geralt's, and Geralt holds it tightly to keep Dettlaff from pulling away from him. Dettlaff looks down at their joined hands, at the way Geralt refuses to let go of him despite knowing those hands have committed acts that would make a lot of people run away from him. Dettlaff closes his eyes, and then continues, "It was not a good reason. I thought it was, when I committed the murders. I was led to believe that my ex-wife had been kidnapped and tortured. I received messages from her kidnappers stating that she would be released if I killed the targets I was given, and that if I refused or went to the authorities, she would be dismembered and killed. I searched for her, but to no avail. The kidnappers threatened to leave her body parts on my doorstep. The targets were men that Syanna told me had harmed her when she was a teenager, so I did as I was told. Regis found out about this situation, despite my attempts to hide it from him, and used these clues to determine that I was being deceived. Syanna had not been kidnapped. She was sending me the notes, fabricating the threats, and directing my kills. Regis solved this mystery the day before I was ordered to kill Syanna's sister, who I knew did not deserve death, and I was spared from committing further atrocities. I deeply regret the four atrocities I can never take back, the four lives I cannot restore, and the blood I cannot wash off my hands." </p>
<p>Geralt twines his fingers with Dettlaff's as he leans forward and cups Dettlaff's cheek with his other hand, pressing his warm palm against skin that's gone nearly grey with the horror of the memories. Geralt understands now why Dettlaff was so traumatized by the situation he alluded to when they were sitting by that fire on that snowy December night. And he understands why Dettlaff didn't want to give any details then. Geralt wouldn't know what judgement to pass on Dettlaff - an unshakably loyal and devoted person who had been backed into a corner and believed he was killing bad men to save a woman he loved from an unspeakably awful fate - even if he wanted to. So Geralt doesn't try. </p>
<p>"I get why you did it," Geralt says. He squeezes Dettlaff's hand, then strokes Dettlaff's cheekbone with his thumb in the same gesture Regis used to comfort him. A gesture of compassion and reassurance. "I understand why you killed those men." </p>
<p>"Can you understand?" Dettlaff opens his eyes, and searches Geralt's face again. Geralt looks back at him unquestioningly, open and honest. "Can you truly comprehend the weight of my actions?" </p>
<p>"I can." Geralt keeps his gaze locked on Dettlaff's for a long moment, hoping he can convey everything he needs to with that look, but he can't. He untangles his fingers from Dettlaff's, then braces his hands on the arms of the chair to slowly and stiffly push himself to his feet. This time, Dettlaff doesn't try to stop him. Geralt walks the few steps over to the balcony railing and crosses his arms on top of it, looking out at the distant place where the blue of the sky meets the rooftops of North Daevon. He knows what he needs to say, but that doesn't mean it will be easy. It's not something he's admitted out loud to anyone before - the most important people in his life either know everything that happened on the day his bodyguarding job went wrong nine years ago, have no idea the incident even occurred, or know just enough about the situation to guess at some things he could've done and never bring those possibilities up. But if Regis and Dettlaff are going to tell Geralt things they don't tell most other people, and if they're going to be honest about darker things they've done, then Geralt owes them the same in return. So Geralt says, keeping his back to Dettlaff and Regis and his eyes on the horizon, "I understand, because I was forced to kill too." </p>
<p>Regis does a quick intake of breath, and Geralt flinches, but then he hears the breath let out slowly and softly. Perfectly even. It's almost painful to realize that Regis's reaction was identical to his own reaction to Dettlaff's confession, because of what that pattern means - after the initial shock of the revelation, Regis processed the person making the confession and was reassured by his assessment of their character. And that means Regis thinks Geralt is a good person. Regis says, cautiously but firmly, like he's trying to make it clear that the statement isn't a prompt for information, "You had a reason." </p>
<p>"Yeah. Reason was, somebody was going to die no matter what I did. Either I killed, or I let someone else die because I wouldn't. I had one second to pick who lived and who died. So I decided that three assassins were going to die, and Ciri's grandmother and I were going to live." Geralt turns his head to the side to keep the sun out of his eyes, and feels its warmth on his cheek and the breeze in his hair. "I can't take that decision back either. I chose to live, and that meant living with what I'd done. So, I understand the weight of taking lives. I decided to pick that weight up ten years ago, and no matter what I do, I can never put it back down." </p>
<p>The truth is, Geralt tries not to think about that weight. And maybe it's wrong, to suppress something like that so he doesn't have to constantly wallow in guilt. To decide that, for his own comfort, he's just going to block out that he committed something that could be called an atrocity. To push it so far down that it doesn't even show up in his nightmares. But he drowned in that guilt for a whole year, floundering and gasping while he wondered if he even deserved to breathe freely again, and eventually he had to accept that letting his head go underwater wouldn't make anything better. Mentally suffocating himself for killing people wouldn't bring them back to life. Geralt can't go back and make a different choice, and even if he could go back, he knows without a doubt that he wouldn't choose differently. He would always choose to save Calanthe's life, even if that meant ending three others. He would always choose to kill the assassins, who had murdered innumerable people and would no doubt go on to murder many more, over his future child's grandmother. It was a fucked up situation to be in, making trade-offs between lives, but Geralt had always known he could end up in a situation like that whenever he took a bodyguarding job. He accepted that was a choice he might have to make. But knowing he might someday have to pick people to live and die, and carry that sentence out himself, didn't make it any easier when the time came to do it. </p>
<p>Geralt's head and face were covered with blood, matting his hair and pouring into his eyes and nose and mouth. The left side of his face was slashed open from his hairline to the bottom of his cheekbone, ragged and gruesome. His right knee was a heavy mass of searing pain, his kneecap shattered by the bullet lodged deep in the joint. The strands of hair above his left ear were sliced short by a bullet that came all too close to burying itself in his brain. His skull was cracked by the asphalt road, leaving him dazed and woozy, and he was struggling to catch his bearings and his balance after spending several seconds unconscious and sprawled in a sick swirling darkness. Behind Geralt, shielded by his battered body, Calanthe was screaming threats at the assassins as she reached uselessly for her gun that had clattered onto the road five feet away. Geralt knew that if the assassins killed him, they'd rip his lifeless corpse off Calanthe and fling it aside like a broken doll. It would land next to Calanthe's gun, the one she could no longer protect herself with, and then she'd be defenseless. They'd kill her easily. Geralt and Calanthe couldn't run, they were outnumbered, and they couldn't reach any close cover. So Geralt did the only thing that could save their lives. He raised his gun with a shaky hand and took the best aim he could, going off instinct and hearing with the way his vision was so blurred and off-kilter, and then he started shooting. </p>
<p>Ciri knows. Geralt's never brought it up with her, but she got the story from Calanthe, so she heard the version where he's a hero. Emhyr knows. Geralt's never brought it up with him either, but his lawyer dug it up and trotted it out during the custody battle, so they all heard the version where he's a killer. Yennefer knows. Geralt brought it up with her, and she told him that life is ugly and death is inevitable and he deserves to be at peace. And now Dettlaff and Regis know. </p>
<p>"Happened during that time I almost died, when I got the scar on my face and fucked up my knee. Back when I was a bodyguard." Geralt turns his head back towards the sun, chasing more of that gentle breeze, since the light has begun to dim. His breath isn't coming as easily as it was before, his skin feels tighter, and he needs more air. "Ciri's grandparents, Calanthe and Eist, were two of my clients. One day, Calanthe and I got ambushed by some hitmen. Inside job - Calanthe's security chief was selling inside information to her rivals and feeding us bullshit surveillance reports, and then he led us into a trap he helped to set. Never saw it coming. It went to shit pretty fast. Don't remember everything clearly, since I hit my head and passed out for a bit, but I ended up shielding Calanthe with my body and thinking we were probably going to die. All our escape routes were cut off, and I wouldn't've been able to get her out of there anyway - I took a bullet in the knee and a knife in the face, almost got shot in the head, and I was so concussed I barely knew what was going on. The options were to sit there and let them kill us, or try to give as good as I got. So I shot at whatever I could, and hoped I got some hitmen. I did." </p>
<p>Geralt doesn't like to think about it. What happened that day, and what happened after. The police investigation into Geralt's actions, which ended pretty quickly because of what a clear-cut self-defense case it was, and then the much more in-depth investigation by the police and Calanthe's security team into the attempted assassination. The lengthy and painful hospital stay, which started with surgery on his shattered knee and staples in his split head and a long line of stitches down his torn face, and then turned into an indeterminate time of him laying in bed swaddled in bandages and drugged up on painkillers because he couldn't properly move or talk or see. The lengthier and equally painful recovery period filled with physical therapy to regain use of his knee, unbearable itching on his scarring face, limping around on crutches, and more time laying in bed because of the post-concussion syndrome that plagued him with headaches and nausea and memory problems. </p>
<p>And Geralt doesn't like to think about what was going on in his head the whole time.  The guilt, the depression, the regret, the anxiety, the feeling of horror whenever someone called him a hero. The existential crisis after he learned his knee would never recover enough to bodyguard again, where he tried to muddle through what he could do with his life, how he'd come to terms with his career loss and injuries and flashbacks, and whether he'd end up starving on the street. The worry that no one would ever hire a man who might hobble on crutches for the rest of his life, with a gruesomely scarred up swollen face that people tried not to look at, who couldn't make it through a day without throwing up from vertigo and headaches and the inability to remember what he did the day before. The worry that no one would find something of worth in him ever again. </p>
<p>Geralt got off the crutches, eventually. He limped sometimes, dragged his leg along at other times, but walked normally most of the time. His face healed well enough that people didn't flinch away from him in disgust, though it was clear that they didn't find the scar particularly pleasant. The headaches and dizziness cleared up, the flashbacks got fewer and further between, the guilt stopped eating every cell in his body, and he started to get better at forming new memories and retrieving old ones. Geralt built himself a new life, piece by piece. He found a full-time job as a metalworker, which didn't pay well but allowed him to be by himself most of the time. He found a stunning and terrifying girlfriend, Yennefer, who was the most incredible woman he'd ever met and didn't think he was too hideous to look at. And he was given a daughter. Ciri. </p>
<p>"And you lived," Dettlaff's voice says, pulling Geralt out of his thoughts. It's right behind Geralt, close to his ear. He hadn't realized Dettlaff had joined him at the railing, with the way his mind drifted into places that made it hard to stay present, but he's glad Dettlaff is here. Geralt's heart's rhythm is off-beat, his lungs aren't expanding enough, and everything under his skin feels taut. A big hand rests on Geralt's lower back, warm and steadying, and it feels good. </p>
<p>"Yeah. I lived. Calanthe did too." Geralt leans back against Dettlaff's chest, shifting his weight from the railing to Dettlaff's solid body. "That's why I got Ciri. Calanthe and Eist appointed me to be her legal guardian, if anything happened to them. They knew I was willing to die to save people I'd made promises to. Kill, if I had to. If I'd give my life for a client on a contract, then I'd give it a hundred times over to protect my daughter. If I'd shoot a hitman who attacked my client, then I wouldn't let anyone in the world harm my daughter. Ciri would always know I'd do anything to keep her safe, because the proof is right here on my face. I didn't know I'd become Ciri's guardian when I jumped in front of Calanthe, when I started shooting at those assassins, and I didn't know I'd become her father after her grandparents died, but... I did. And if Ciri was in danger, I'd die for her, or kill for her, in a heartbeat. Sometimes you're forced to do terrible things, things you'd never want to do, for people you love." </p>
<p>"You understand this." Dettlaff wraps his arms around Geralt's waist, pressing his face into the hollow of Geralt's neck from behind. His breath is warm and uneven. "You understand this monstrous thing." </p>
<p>"I do," Geralt replies. He reaches up to touch Dettlaff's soft hair, sliding his fingers into the loose curls and applying a little bit of pressure. Dettlaff rests his forehead on Geralt's shoulder, guided by the gentle push. They support each other's weight, providing a much-needed steadying force that keeps both of them from having to stand on their own. "I understand it. I've been through myself. It's monstrous, for sure, but I'd like to think I'm not. And you're not either." </p>
<p>"I am grateful for your forgiveness," Dettlaff murmurs, tightening his hold around Geralt's waist. </p>
<p>Geralt shakes his head. "Not my place to forgive you for what you did, and I won't make it my place. Not your place to forgive me for what I did, either. We owed each other explanations, not forgiveness or absolution, and we gave those. So that's settled between us. I hope Regis feels the same." </p>
<p>"I do," Regis replies, before a single heartbeat can pass. With how quickly he gets the words out, it's clear he's had a reassurance on the tip of his tongue, ready to be delivered before Geralt gets a second of silence to doubt whether he'll give it. "I won't attempt to forgive or absolve you, Geralt, just as I didn't attempt to forgive or absolve Dettlaff. The matter is settled between you and I as well." </p>
<p>"Thanks, Regis." Geralt shifts in Dettlaff's arms, and Dettlaff slowly loosens them so the two of them can turn to face Regis. Geralt doesn't look into Regis's eyes, not yet ready to meet them again. "Sorry. Know that was a lot to spring on you two. Would've warned you first, but I didn't know I was gonna say all that until I was already saying it." </p>
<p>"The fault is mine, if anyone's." Regis's voice is somewhere between rueful and sheepish. "Once again, it was I who initiated an agonizingly heavy conversation with similarly minimal forewarning. Rambling on about one's narrowly avoided untimely demise, accompanied by a vividly descriptive narrative of a harrowing journey towards and through a dark night of the soul, can impose upon the hapless listener some quite -" </p>
<p>Geralt holds up a hand to cut Regis off. "I asked for it. You offered to wait until I was in a better place. I insisted. You gave me what I asked for. That's all there is to it." </p>
<p>Regis nods, and smiles affectionately as Geralt finally locks their gazes. Regis's soft black eyes are still just as gentle as Geralt had hoped - and, somehow, knew they'd be. It's funny, but talking with Dettlaff and Regis about the deaths the three of them have caused, and the other deaths they've almost caused, has solidified Geralt's newfound assurance that the couple doesn't think he's a horrible flawed burden to be ditched for putting one toe over the line. Geralt's put two bloody hands over the line, and they stayed right where they were and put their own bloody hands in his. </p>
<p>"You have chosen to stay with us, Geralt. We will tell you anything you ask, and we will listen to anything you tell us." Dettlaff keeps one arm around Geralt's waist and holds out the other for Geralt to use as a support as he leads Geralt back to his chair. Geralt's knee still hurts, stiff and uncomfortable, but there's an analgesic in the way Dettlaff always notices his discomfort and helps him through it. Dettlaff lowers Geralt into his seat with a careful patience, making sure he's settled before returning to his perch on the table. Then Dettlaff says, "We are grateful that you have chosen to stay with us." </p>
<p>Geralt sits there, struck with wonder at the words he couldn't have imagined anyone saying to him only one hour ago. Words he couldn't have imagined anyone meaning one hour ago. Words he never would've believed one hour ago. It'd be startling how quickly Geralt has found himself able to believe them, if Regis hadn't made him see something that seems painfully obvious in retrospect: Geralt wasn't just deprecating himself, he was deprecating <em>others</em>. It seems cruel now, what Geralt had thought about the people around him: they didn't know what they were talking about, they didn't see what was right in front of them, they couldn't figure out the obvious, they were unable to look beneath the surface of situations, they didn't understand their own thoughts and feelings, they were patronizing and pitying, they would blatantly lie to someone they cared about. Geralt's mind had turned his loved ones into clueless, oblivious, dishonest, condescending people - and he hadn't even realized what it had done. Geralt's not optimistic enough to believe he'll suddenly start thinking better of himself overnight, not when he's still got plenty of flaws and shortcomings and burdensome qualities, but he's figured out that he needs to start thinking better of the people he loves. And that's a start. </p>
<p>The long silence between the three of them is more comfortable than Geralt would expect, given the subject matter they just covered. The wisping of the wind is the only  sound between them for an indeterminate time, as they all wind down and process their conversation separately but together. Geralt feels safe and satisfied by the presence of Regis in the chair beside him and Dettlaff on the table in front of him, the tension and adrenaline gripping his body gradually lulling into loosened muscles and easily flowing blood. The sun's harsh light has grown softer, filtered through the thick cloud that's appeared to begin sliding across it. Another raven swoops by, taking a moment to touch its talons down on the balcony railing and tilt its head with a few quiet cawing noises before swooping off again. Geralt watches it shrink into the distance, and wonders vaguely if it has a destination in mind.   </p>
<p>After a while, Regis says, "Geralt, dear - this is a highly personal decision, I am aware, and as such, you are free to tell me to remove my nose from matters concerning your medical and psychological care, but I feel obligated to pose the inquiry nonetheless - have you, at any point, sought therapy?" </p>
<p>"No." Geralt shrugs, then brushes a few loose white hairs back from his face. The idea of therapy hadn't, at any point, crossed his mind. "Never thought about it." </p>
<p>"Ah," Regis says. His chair creaks as he shifts positions. "And, if I may pry further - again, you are well within your rights to deny me that prying - may I ask why seeking therapy has never occurred to you?" </p>
<p>Geralt doesn't get the question, at first. It seems like a dead end. If Geralt never thought about going to therapy, then of course he wouldn't have thought about why he wasn't thinking about it. But instead of giving a quick and snarky reply, Geralt takes a bit of time to muddle through the question. And, using his knowledge of how Regis's guidance works, he understands what Regis is trying to get him to do: figure out why therapy never seemed like an option for him. Eventually, Geralt comes up with, "Guess it didn't... seem like something I'd do. Talking about stuff with somebody, and then paying them to tell me what to do about it. Wouldn't make much sense to do that, when I didn't have anything to talk about. At least, nothing that talking could fix." </p>
<p>"Ah," Regis says again. His voice comes out kind of like a sigh. "May I posit that, perhaps, the methodology and function of the talking - so to speak - was never made clear to you, and thus you would not have seen how it might be able to assist you in improving - if not fixing - some difficulties that you would not have realized could be addressed through such methods?" </p>
<p>Geralt wants to bristle at that, but he doesn't, because it's true. Now that Regis points it out, he doesn't actually know how therapy works or what kind of stuff gets addressed there. He'd gotten the idea that therapy is what happens when a doctor and someone who feels sad sit in a room together and talk about being sad, but he isn't sure where he got that idea. And he'd never considered <em>how</em> they talk about being sad, or whether they talk about anything else. That's just not information that's ever crossed his path, and he didn't see a reason to seek it out. So finally, Geralt says, "Yeah. You may posit that. You'd be right." </p>
<p>"At risk of greatly simplifying the complex and highly individualized process of therapy, and at risk of being perceived as telling you that there is "something wrong with you" - a terribly cruel and offensive phrase, which I would never use in earnest, but must acknowledge as a sentiment that is often evoked by such conversations - I would like to offer you a bit of information regarding the practice of therapy and its merits, if you are amenable to it." Regis looks at Geralt for confirmation or denial, waiting until he gets a nod and a quiet <em>mhm</em> before continuing. "The talks that occur within a therapy session are guided by the therapist, using one of many available methods, selected and tailored by the therapist for the particular patient's needs. During the first appointment, the patient and therapist discuss the patient's symptoms, concerns, and treatment goals in order to best determine their approach. Subsequently, during that and future appointments, the patient talks about anything and everything that may be causing them distress or difficulty. While a therapist cannot necessarily "fix the problem", they can assist the patient in working through their thoughts and feelings regarding these matters in a way that lessens the distress. They can also provide strategies and mechanisms that the patient can apply to their life in order to better handle difficult situations, cope with unpleasant feelings that may arise in connection with them, and alter harmful patterns of thinking. Ultimately, this can improve situations that the patient may not necessarily realize can be addressed, at least in part, through therapy." </p>
<p>"Hm." Geralt nods. He's still not totally sure what the whole thing entails, particularly in regards to the "many available methods" for "guiding" the talking, but he has a much better idea than he did before. And he gets how it could be helpful for things he didn't think got addressed in therapy, because they couldn't be fixed there. He gives Regis a little upwards quirk of his lips. "So when's the part where you don't tell me what's wrong with me?" </p>
<p>"That would be the part in which I list a few concerns for which therapy might be beneficial, without diagnosing anyone in present company or passing judgement upon anyone who may experience said concerns," Regis says. He reaches over and places a hand just above Geralt's knee, careful to position it in a way that provides comforting pressure without stressing a joint that's clearly irritable. "For example: frequent nightmares, aftereffects of traumatic situations, feelings of anxiety, and persistent negative beliefs about oneself." </p>
<p>"Yeah. Guess it could... be beneficial for those." Geralt looks down at Regis's hand on his thigh, feeling a bit of color rising in his ears from the way the list tells him exactly what Regis has noticed about him. Geralt knows Regis said he wasn't diagnosing him or telling him what's wrong with him, but he feels a little bit diagnosed. Which is probably because Regis has put a name on things that Geralt hasn't had a name for, or hasn't realized he's feeling. The nightmares are undeniable, but the rest were just part of Geralt's normal. He didn't think he was experiencing aftereffects of a traumatic situation, because he figured he'd gotten over what happened during the assassination attempt once he was able to suppress it - but now he's wondering if there are connections he didn't put together, just like he didn't connect Emhyr's accident with his reaction to thunderstorms. He didn't think he was having feelings of anxiety, because he categorized his worrying into either "being reasonable" or "being stupid", but if he pulls the thoughts out of those two boxes and puts them in one single "worrying" box, then it becomes obvious that there's too much in the box. The persistent negative beliefs about himself seemed like acknowledging objective truths, until Regis called him out on it. Regis said he wasn't telling Geralt that things were wrong with him, and he technically didn't, but he's made Geralt see that some things aren't <em>right</em>. That some parts of his normal aren't okay. </p>
<p>"As previously stated, my dearest, I will not unduly meddle in your personal health decisions." Regis squeezes Geralt's thigh. "However, if you determine that therapy would be helpful for you, and you'd like assistance in the process of procuring it, then Dettlaff and I would be more than happy to provide that assistance. We both have extensive experience with it, as we both found it vital to our journeys of healing from - well, the numerous aforementioned crises and misfortunes. While I would not go so far as to call us experts, I would call us highly informed." </p>
<p>Geralt nods, then slips his hand under Regis's to twine their fingers together. Therapy sounds complicated, it sounds expensive, and it sounds like baring his soul in a way that he doesn't like baring his soul. But since he's met Regis and Dettlaff, he's gotten more practice with soul-baring, and he thinks he might be getting better at it. And anything that might stop his nightmares, after forty fucking years of horrors and fear, is worth a shot. Not to mention, Geralt recently went on a whole tirade at Emhyr about how they've both got a lot of shit to fix and how they both need to work on themselves. Now that Geralt knows more of the shit that he needs to fix, and has been informed of a way to work on himself, it'd be pretty hypocritical to brush that off. If Emhyr wants to start their relationship over, and he comes back to tell Geralt how he worked on fixing his issues, then Geralt can't very well reply with <em>I decided not to fix mine</em>. </p>
<p>"Couple other things I wonder if therapy could help with..." Geralt begins, because thinking about Emhyr has brought a lot of stuff to the surface. As it tends to do. "Traumatic situations would include a vehicle accident, a death of a wife, or a coma, I figure. But they'd also include parents and grandparents dying, moving families a few times, and getting fought over in a custody battle, right?" </p>
<p>"Certainly," Regis replies. "I'd say it could be very helpful in those circumstances." </p>
<p>"Shit. I might've really fucked up." Geralt lowers his forehead into his hand, rubbing at the wrinkles in the skin, and shakes his head. It's occurring to him, now that he's heard all this, that he might've dropped the ball by not bringing Ciri to therapy. That didn't cross his mind, either. She seems pretty well-adjusted, considering everything she's been through, but Geralt's officially established that he can't tell who's well-adjusted or not. If he thought that he and Emhyr were both dealing with trauma just fine, then he has no chance of properly assessing the mental health of a teenage girl. Geralt remembers Ciri saying that she has a counselor at her school, but he has no idea if that's anything like a therapist, or if Ciri's ever talked to them. He knows for sure that Ciri didn't have a counselor at the school she was enrolled in before Emhyr decided to swoop in and stick her in a fancy academy, and that's probably when she needed one most. Geralt and Regis have established that it's not necessarily Geralt's fault that therapy never crossed his mind, considering he didn't really know what it was - but that doesn't keep Geralt from adding something else to the worry box, in the compartment designated for thoughts about whether he's a terrible father. Geralt sighs. "My daughter's whole life has been one big traumatic situation. I should talk to her about therapy. Turns out she might need it." </p>
<p>And it turns out that Emhyr definitely needs it. Considering how they parted ways, though, Geralt's not the right person to talk to him about that. But, unlike Geralt, Emhyr likely knows how therapy works. Which means he knows it addresses his wide assortment of issues, and he knows it's an option for him. The question is whether he'd actually try it. It was pretty clear from their last conversation that Emhyr's never gone to therapy, and if he wasn't pushed to do that by his desperate scramble to wrench back custody of his estranged daughter in an ugly legal battle during which he was processing his grief over his wife's death and avoiding thunderstorms, then Geralt doesn't know whether he'll be pushed to do it by a breakup with a guy he wasn't even dating. Given the vulnerability Emhyr showed during that breakup, though, Geralt holds a sliver of hope that Emhyr might now be in a place where he's more willing to accept that he needs help and to seek it out. Whether Emhyr does that will be a good litmus test of how willing he is to work on himself, and how willing he is to fix their relationship. For Emhyr, deciding to open up to someone and work through everything he's bottled up and suppressed might be as difficult as going to Tissaia de Vries and defending Geralt's book proposal. But if Emhyr could do that, then maybe he can go to therapy. If he loves Geralt and Ciri enough, then maybe he'll do it. </p>
<p>Geralt loves Emhyr and Ciri enough to do it. So he decides, once and for all, that he will. </p>
<p>"That sounds like a good idea," Regis says. Geralt sneaks a sideways look at him, and finds him smiling gently. "Should Ciri decide that she would like to pursue therapy, then Dettlaff and I are more than willing to provide her with any assistance or guidance she might require - and, of course, we are equally willing to assist or guide her in any other matter in which we can be of use. As you are a significant part of our lives, Geralt, we will happily welcome your daughter into our lives as well." </p>
<p>"Yes. Very happily," Dettlaff affirms. </p>
<p>"Thanks. I'll tell her." Geralt's voice comes out more gruff than he means it to, clipped by the way it's gotten choked up in his throat. He'd been figuring that Ciri and Regis and Dettlaff would get along, and he'd long ago decided that anyone who wanted to mingle their lives in some way would have to be kind and supportive to his daughter, but how readily the couple encourages Geralt to offer their help and care to Ciri has his eyes stinging. No matter who enters or leaves Geralt's life, Ciri will always be the most important person to him, and his relationship with his daughter will always be the one he prioritizes. It means everything to him that Regis and Dettlaff understand they're taking on the responsibility of caring for Ciri, not just Geralt, and they're eager to do it. Geralt knows, hearing the couple's empathy for his daughter, that he's made the right choice in opening his heart to them. </p>
<p>The sky is grey now, hanging heavily above them. The sun is all but gone, the formerly bright world shadowed by the large and grim clouds that have formed. The breeze has turned brisk, cooling the air. Geralt hadn't noticed the shift, with the way he was caught up in discovering that he and Ciri have trauma and they should've been talking to someone about it, but it was rapid. He remembers Regis mentioning rain, but puts that probability aside. He's not ready to go back into the apartment yet. He needs open space and fresh air for a while longer.  </p>
<p>"So. Went over a lot, there. Anything else you two need to tell me?" Geralt looks between Dettlaff and Regis, offering them both a reassuring smile. Geralt's gotten better at smiling since he's met the two of them. He's still not great at it, mostly just gives little twitches of his lips that aren't particularly attractive and are probably unnerving, but he's improving. He's glad he made the effort to learn to smile more regularly for them, since he's come to understand that some things can only be conveyed by a smile. The kind of <em>we're okay</em> that he wants to project to the couple now is one of those things. Geralt gets a very slight smile back from Dettlaff, and an intensely comforting one from Regis, and he knows they got what he wanted to express to them. Since the three of them have already been through so much, Geralt decides to ask again about the thing he's been wondering for months. "That note you gave me. The one with the poem. Regis - you said earlier that you couldn't give me a summary of it, because it wouldn't come out right. Did a good job telling me your story, though, and that wasn't easy to summarize either. Think you could lower your literary standards and give the note a shot?" </p>
<p>Dettlaff and Regis exchange a look, the one they always communicate through when they have something difficult to figure out. Geralt sits patiently and lets them have their silent conversation, hoping that one day he'll get good enough at interpreting them to decipher what they're not-saying. It goes on for a long time, but still, Geralt waits. </p>
<p>Regis finally sighs and breaks eye contact with Dettlaff, shaking his head like they haven't quite reached a resolution. He brushes something invisible off his forehead with an awkward gesture, and gazes up at the ominous clouds in the steadily darkening sky. "Ah... Perhaps it's for the best that the note's contents remain a mystery. While I'm certain they contain no sentiments whose presence you have not already discerned from the totality of our interactions and conversations today - among many other days - they are sentiments that arguably should be left unspoken for a while longer. That while, of course, extending until the publication of <em>Cryptids: Fact and Fantasy</em> and the termination of our professional relationship in connection with it. Explicitly stating those sentiments could prove to be unwise, and at the very least, it would be wildly unprofessional -" </p>
<p>"You, Regis? Leaving anything unspoken? Doesn't seem likely." Geralt crosses his arms. He raises an eyebrow wryly, hoping he's the only one that can hear how hard his heart is pounding. He thinks he knows what sentiments Regis means, but he's not ready to let himself be certain about it. A chilly raindrop smacks into Geralt's forehead with a surprising amount of force for its size, but he ignores it. "Not like we're a shining example of professionalism, anyway. Two members of this team are dating, and the third one recently passed out on them after getting blackout drunk over a breakup. Think I remember us talking about death and love and trauma on a couple different occasions, and we just decided I'm going to therapy. Might as well spit those <em>sentiments</em> out." </p>
<p>"I concede your points." Regis gives Geralt a sheepish expression, then flinches as the rain and the wind simultaneously pick up and he gets peppered with heavy drops of water. Geralt lets out the beginnings of a quiet chuckle, until the breeze shifts directions and his face is the next victim of the brewing storm. Dettlaff is immediately on his feet and standing over Geralt, his broad back providing a shield from the rain. Dettlaff braces Geralt in a steady hold and helps him up from his chair, moving as quickly as he can without irritating Geralt's knee, and wraps an arm around his shoulders to shuffle him back inside the apartment. Regis hastily joins them in the shuffle. "All right, my dears. Let's continue the unveiling of sentiments once we're indoors, shall we?"</p>
<p>Indoors, it turns out, means Dettlaff and Regis's bedroom. Geralt figured they'd head back to the living room, or somewhere less intimate, but it becomes clear that's not going to be the case when Regis gestures to a comfortable reading chair beside the couple's bed and Dettlaff places him down in it. Geralt blinks, his sensitive eyes undergoing a series of pupil dilations and contractions, and attempts to process that they're going to be talking about their feelings in the pair's private sanctuary. It's a clean and subdued room, furnished with dark wood nightstands and dressers, and big windows that provide a continuation of the view from the balcony. There isn't any art - it might be the only place in the apartment that doesn't have at least some - but there are two wall shelves that each hold three small houseplants. The bed is large, with a neatly draped dark grey bedspread and several plump white pillows, and Geralt tries very hard not to think too much about Regis and Dettlaff laying together in it. That isn't made easier by the way the two of them sit down on the bed, side by side, their hands instinctively finding each others' as they face Geralt. </p>
<p>"Nice room," Geralt says, after several seconds of nobody saying anything. It comes out mumbled, with the way he's just trying to get someone else to talk. "Plants." </p>
<p>"Quite lovely, aren't they?" Regis's amused expression tells Geralt he's fully aware of what Geralt's attempting to do. Geralt nods, shifting in the reading chair, and indicates the wall shelves like Regis hasn't just acknowledged he knows exactly which plants Geralt is referring to. Now that Geralt knows they're on the verge of discussing <em>sentiments</em>, and he's getting some time to overthink the conversation, he's descending into one of his characteristic bouts of awkwardness. Regis chuckles, then turns his head to kiss Dettlaff on the cheek. Dettlaff's eyes are full of a quiet affection that makes Geralt want to do whatever he can to earn that fondness himself. "Most of them were gifts from Dettlaff." </p>
<p>"Good gifts." Geralt waits for a few more moments, fidgeting with his sleeve. He looks back at the vibrant green plants on their short wooden shelves, and breathes in the humid smell of rain that was swept in on the breeze. Neither member of the couple picks up the conversation, leaving it up to Geralt to begin it when he's ready, so he decides to grab onto the line he's been given and dive into the space they're all here to explore. The space that's filled with uncharted territory, but still has some familiar terrain. The three of them are getting used to navigating those kinds of spaces together, and that means this one won't be as dangerous as Geralt had previously thought. So Geralt prompts, "The Vigilosaur carving was a good gift. Can't say whether the note was, since I don't know what it said. Good thing you're about to tell me." </p>
<p>"I suppose I am, aren't I." Regis pauses, gazing out the windows thoughtfully as he strokes his chin, and Geralt knows for sure that he's still being teased. He frowns and huffs a little, but not too much, because this is what he deserves for destroying the couple's painstakingly crafted poem. He'd been planning to go for the rest of eternity without ever knowing what the note said, just because he didn't want to get stuck in an uncomfortable situation, so he can take his payback for spilling tea on their hearts and souls in the form of light-hearted stalling. Regis crosses one leg over the other, rests an elbow on his knee, and props his chin up with his hand as he hunches over into a contemplative pose. "How shall I put it... I must carefully consider the construction of my cautious confession, as exactness in elocution - and elimination of the excess of extreme eloquence in expansive erudition - is of the essence, lest I misspeak in a manner that may make my mark misconstrue my meandering musings. Pardon my perhaps pretentious pontification on precious precision -"</p>
<p>"Regis." Geralt frowns deeper, crossing his arms. A slow rumble of thunder follows his complaint, like punctuation. He deserves the teasing, but he can only take so much of Regis beating him over the head with his mental thesaurus. "Sometime this century?" </p>
<p>"For my sake as well as Geralt's," Dettlaff says, squeezing Regis's hand with a weariness that has Regis chuckling.</p>
<p>"Oh, alright. I've had my fun." Regis drops his philosophical pose and sits back up, settling himself primly on the bedspread with a smile still playing on his lips. "In truth, the note that Dettlaff and I wrote in December would pale in comparison to the note that we would write today. The poem was far more vague and cryptic than we would choose to be now, given our increased comfort with sharing the specific ways in which we cherish you - and given our increased understanding of the severity of your inability to decipher expressions of interest in you. Furthermore, in the months that followed our first attempt at penning our feelings about you, those feelings have greatly deepened and become ever more all-encompassing. Were I suddenly granted the ability to reproduce December's poem in its entirety, I would choose not to engage in such an act of folly - it would do all of us a great disservice to diminish what we feel for you in the present by plying you with the shallower words of the past." </p>
<p>"Got it. Old note forgotten," Geralt says. He's not following all of Regis's statements, with all the flowery twists and turns of phrase, but his heartbeat is picking back up and he's allowing himself to be a little more certain about where Regis is going with this. Letting himself fill in some of the spaces between the lines, without immediately erasing the words he's put there and telling himself that there's no way someone else would use those words there. No way they would use those words about him. But he needs to know for sure, needs to hear the two of them say it. So Geralt asks, "What would today's note say?" </p>
<p>"It would require only a few words," Dettlaff replies. His voice carries forceful emotion, like he's trying to make Geralt understand the gravity of those not-yet-spoken words.  Thunder rolls under it, heavy and strong. "The message is simple." </p>
<p>"Our dearest Geralt," Regis begins, in a tone that evokes his beautiful calligraphy, "We have fallen deeply in love with you." </p>
<p>"Yours eternally," Dettlaff finishes, with all the richness and texture of his drawings, "Dettlaff and Regis." </p>
<p>And there it is.</p>
<p>Finally, there it is.</p>
<p>Geralt sits with the words, lets them surround him and wrap themselves around him until he can begin to absorb them. They sink into his skin, his muscles, his bones, his veins, and become part of him. They feel like they've always been meant to be part of him, a part of him that he hadn't known was missing until it settled into its place and he knew it belonged there. He couldn't have known the exact words he was yearning for, even in his moments of weakness where he let himself imagine that he might be told he's loved, but now that he's heard the words he knows they're the ones he's been desperately needing. Geralt had been expecting that, even if he heard the perfect words, they would sit uncomfortably on his outer shell like a weight that was far too heavy for its size. They couldn't have gotten through that shell, with the way Geralt didn't feel he should have them and didn't feel he deserved them and never would have been able to believe them. But that outer shell has been destroyed today, worn down by love and kindness and trust and honesty until there was nothing left to catch those words and keep them out. Whether Geralt feels he should have them, and whether he feels he deserves them, doesn't matter. He can't help but believe them. So, as Geralt sits amidst the words, they sink in. And they become eternally part of him. </p>
<p>"Funny," Geralt says, once he's managed to adjust to this previously unthinkable world where Dettlaff and Regis are in love with him. One where they're just in love with him as he's in love with them. One where they've been reciprocating his affections not because they were tolerating him, but because they were yearning for him. One where he can have - one where he has - exactly what he's wanted. One where he's had what he's wanted for much longer than he's realized: the offer of Regis and Dettlaff's hearts, and their acceptance of his heart in return. Geralt gives the two of them a smile, and it's still small and crooked, but it's finally at peace. "My note to you two would say the same thing." </p>
<p>"Our dearest Geralt," Dettlaff echoes, arching one eyebrow in playful amusement, "Yours eternally, Dettlaff and Regis?" </p>
<p>"No, the -" Geralt fumbles his words as the aforementioned Dettlaff and Regis laugh at him, and helplessly gestures at nothing. "The - deeply in love with you part." </p>
<p>"We know, our love. We know." Regis shakes his head, stifling his laughter at Geralt's slumped shoulders and small pout. "My, but you are unbearably precious, aren't you?" </p>
<p>"Hm." Geralt lowers his eyes and adjusts his sleeve again, the same nervous fidget that's been getting much more frequent in the presence of Regis and Dettlaff. He can feel a bright red blush rushing into his ears, and he hopes his cheeks have kept to a light pink. He's not used to being called precious. His muscled body and gruff demeanor and weathered aging face keep people from finding anything gentle and sweet about him, and his unsettling cat-pupil eyes and sharp canine teeth and big winding scar keep them from finding anything plasant or adorable. But after all the art Dettlaff's made of him, and all the compliments that Dettlaff and Regis have given him, Geralt's starting to wrap his head around the fact that it's possible for someone to genuinely enjoy looking at him. Distracted as Geralt is by the second part of Regis's statement, it takes him a moment to process the first part and snap his head up. "Wait - you know? The deeply in love with you part - you know?" </p>
<p>"Oh, gracious." Regis stops trying to stifle his laughter, and Dettlaff joins in with one of his rare low laughs. Despite the fondness in their mirth, Geralt would bristle in indignation if he wasn't frozen like a deer in headlights. "My sweet darling Geralt, did you think your significant feelings towards us weren't apparent? Were you not attempting to make your reciprocation clear - and even, in fact, attempting to hide it? My word, you grow more precious by the moment. Dettlaff and I were quite openly courting you, and our poem indicated our romantic interest in you, so we interpreted your actions and words as responding in kind. Had we thought you were uninterested, we would not have been so forward in our interactions with you. However, it seems that we once again underestimated the full extent of your obliviousness, and failed to consider the possibility that the contents of our note may not have come under your perusal. But, regardless of the foregoing - I am sorry to tell you, dear one, that we have been aware of the nature and strength of your emotions for quite some time." </p>
<p>"Oh. Fuck." Geralt sighs, then looks down at his hands in his lap. That's not far enough down, so he continues the downward trajectory until his gaze is fixed on some intriguing knots in the complex rustic pattern of the dark wood floor. The air in the bedroom is still thick with humidity, and he wonders if he could drown himself by breathing in enough of it. "Could've told me I was acting like - don't know, gonna assume a lovesick puppy." </p>
<p>"We were under the impression it was intentional," Dettlaff replies. And that makes Geralt feel incredibly stupid, because he's known for a long time about Dettlaff's eye for detail. He's come to expect Dettlaff's scrutiny of every one of his reactions. He's been made aware of Dettlaff's careful study of his face. He's seen how Dettlaff is quick to notice when Geralt's knee is hurting and he needs a footstool or support while walking, or when it's stiff and he needs help getting up from chairs or sitting down in them. He's been aware of Dettlaff's perceptiveness throughout the entirety of his crush on the couple, and even before that. He's experienced many occasions where Dettlaff has deciphered what Geralt feels without a single word. So Geralt feels very, very stupid for thinking that Dettlaff wouldn't pick up on the subtle indications of his feelings - and even stupider for not realizing that he was being far from subtle. </p>
<p>"Well. It wasn't." Geralt's heavy sigh is obscured by the sharp crack of lightning that sends a momentary flash of light glinting off the polished wood floor, and his deep groan is covered up by the following booming growl of thunder. Which is for the best, since he's apparently been dramatic enough over the past several months. "I'm not good at all this. Being in love, talking about love, figuring out when other people are in love, or hiding me being in love - yeah, I did try. Reason is, I didn't want to fuck everything up. Figured neither of you would want me, especially not both of you, because there's not a whole lot about me to want. Thought it might make you uncomfortable, me feeling that way about you, and you might want me to stop hanging out with you. We work on a team together, so it seemed like a bad idea to screw up our professional relationship and make things awkward when we're trying to get a book done. And... I didn't want you to cut me off. Didn't want you to decide you didn't want me around anymore. Start having our meetings over the phone, start cutting our conversations short, stop inviting me to galleries and breakfasts, stop talking to me about your lives. Stop spending time with me. Stop liking me. Guess this sounds pathetic, but, I was willing to take whatever I could get. I didn't need you to date me, didn't need you to love me, as long as you still wanted me around. So I kept my mouth shut, tried to hide everything, because I didn't want to fuck it all up. Didn't want to fuck <em>us</em> up." </p>
<p>"Oh, my dearest love. My poor, sweet love. Come here." Regis's shoes plant more solidly on the floor in the far reaches of Geralt's field of vision, and there's a rustle of fabric as the bedspread shifts. Geralt gets up from the reading chair almost in a daze, his feet feeling like they're not stepping in the right places as he drifts over to the bed. Regis takes Geralt's hand and guides him along, and Geralt follows where he's led because he wants to be wherever Regis is. Wants to be anywhere that both Regis and Dettlaff are. Somehow Geralt ends up seated on the bedspread between the two of them, with an arm wrapped around his waist and another wrapped around his upper back and his head on someone's shoulders. Geralt doesn't try to figure out whose body is whose, because it doesn't matter. It only matters that he's with Dettlaff and Regis, and they're with him. </p>
<p>"I'm sorry, Geralt. We did not know." Dettlaff's voice is close to Geralt's ear, and a heavy head rests on top of Geralt's just as two big hands encompass one of Geralt's own. </p>
<p>"I'm terribly sorry as well, Geralt." Regis's tone is filled with sorrow and regret, and the arm around his waist retracts until a gentle hand begins to rub the middle of his back. "Had Dettlaff and I known you felt that way, we would have initiated this conversation much sooner. In truth, we shared your desire to preserve the stability of our professional relationship and to avoid inflicting discomfort upon any other parties. One's colleagues spontaneously springing a love confession upon them could create a quite uncomfortable circumstance, one which we did not want to place you in before you were ready. Additionally, you are - and I mean this in the kindest and fondest way possible - rather skittish. For all the aforementioned reasons, we thought it best to allow you to determine the pace of our relationship and follow your lead. But, once more, we should have known you better than that. We should have known you would need to be offered our love in order to believe you could have it - or that you deserved it. But you do deserve it, Geralt. You deserve our love, you deserve your daughter's love, you deserve your friends and family's love, you deserve your readers' love, and you deserve your own love." </p>
<p>Finally, after so long, after so fucking long, Geralt believes that.</p>
<p>Geralt's other hand comes up to cover his eyes, because they're stinging badly and blurred with a wetness that he needs to keep from overflowing. The pressure from his palm doesn't stop the stinging, and it doesn't stop the tears from running down his cheeks. With the way Geralt feels right now, nothing could stop them.</p>
<p>It's all so much, and it's overwhelming. Everything today has been overwhelming. Everything in the past year has been overwhelming. Everything has been overwhelming for much, much longer than that. Maybe everything has been overwhelming for as long as Geralt can remember. The unrelenting internal flood of negativity and inadequacy and self-hatred that he's been submersed in for forty years; the fear and exhaustion from the nightmares that have been stealing his sleep and sense of peace for just as long; the constant worry that has made everything seem like a threat or a problem that will become dangerous if he allows himself to feel more than a short period of safety; the traumatic incidents that have burrowed deep into his mind and warped it in ways he can't begin to identify; the feeling, validated over and over again by incident after incident and relationship after relationship and person after person, that no one could ever truly want or love him. And now that Geralt sees a way out of it all - changes in his thoughts, rejection of his lifelong denial, therapy for his many struggles and pains, the unconditional acceptance of all his merits and flaws by his daughter and the couple he's fallen absolutely and helplessly in love with - it's too much. It's all too much, and he can't fathom how he lived like this for so long. How he intended to keep living like this forever, until one day he died and it was over. </p>
<p>"We're here, Geralt," Dettlaff says, and Geralt knows, because the two of them are an anchor and a lifeline and the only reason he hasn't been swept away and drowned in the sudden and violent uprising of everything he simply floated in for so long. "We're here." </p>
<p>Geralt lets the tears pour down his face until eventually they dry up, the stinging in his eyes subsides, and his hand pulls away from his sore and puffy eyelids. He wipes at his wet cheeks with his sleeve, and has a dull sense of surprise at the size of the damp patches on the fabric when he looks down at it. It's been over a decade since the last time he openly cried, since he allowed himself more than a few moments of bleary eyes and let tears actually fall and keep flowing until they stopped. The last time was horrible: it was a week after Geralt got home from the hospital, and he was sobbing on his bathroom floor in agony with blood covering his face because he had fallen off his crutches while dizzily hobbling there to throw up yet again and the stitches on his cheek had ripped and he couldn't remember the past several days but he remembered that he was a murderer who deserved to look so grotesque that everyone who looked at him would know he was a monster. Geralt stopped crying after that. </p>
<p>But this time, crying wasn't horrible. This time, crying felt - good, somehow. Geralt knows he should be embarrassed, with the way he just started breaking down on Dettlaff and Regis without warning, but he's not. He knows he should be embarrassed about breaking down on anyone at all, since it's been decades since he's cried in front of anyone and he wasn't planning to ever do it again, but he's not embarrassed. And that's precisely because it's Dettlaff and Regis that he broke down on. Geralt's rubbing the last traces of wetness off his face and sniffling his stuffy nose clear and pulling deep breaths into his constricted lungs, and it feels good. Geralt feels good. </p>
<p>"Feeling a bit better, our love?" Regis asks. The words take a few moments to go from sounds to meaning, since Geralt's ears are still ringing and his mind is still hazy, but just hearing Regis's voice is enough to make Geralt smile without any effort at all. </p>
<p>"Yeah," Geralt croaks, and nods against the shoulder his head is still resting on. "Great, actually." </p>
<p>"We are glad," Dettlaff says. He tightens his hands comfortingly around Geralt's increasingly sweaty one. "Would you like to lay down for a while, and I'll fetch you some tea?" </p>
<p>"No. Don't want you to leave. Could use some tea, though." Geralt nudges the nearby neck with the top of his head. "How 'bout you bring me with you? You'd have to carry me, but I think you could manage it." </p>
<p>"It would be my pleasure." Dettlaff shifts Geralt's full weight onto Regis, who adjusts positions to take it, as he disentangles himself from Geralt's mess of shaky limbs and mussed-up white hair. Before Geralt can feel cold and unsteady without him, Dettlaff very carefully puts an arm around Geralt's shoulders and slides another under his legs and scoops him up from the bed in a slow but smooth motion. Geralt smiles wider, curls up in Dettlaff's arms, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel happy as Dettlaff carries him past the shelves of cheery green plants and out of the couple's bedroom. Geralt isn't sad to leave it, since he gets the sense that he'll have more opportunities to cuddle with Regis and Dettlaff on that same bed in the future. </p>
<p>The kitchen has been darkened by the thunderstorm still raging outside, and Geralt regains awareness of the ferocious patter of the rain on the windows and bellowing of the thunder in the cloud-blanketed sky. He'd stopped noticing the onslaught of weather, with the way he was overwhelmed with a storm of his own, but now its noise and vibrance is welcome and refreshing. A piercing bolt of lightning splits through the thickness of the storm, and Geralt finds himself feeling a thrill at its energy. Dettlaff carries Geralt to that grey tweed sofa and lays him down on it, and it still brings up the mortifying memories of drunkenly stumbling through Daevon and then babbling nonsense at the couple before passing out while wearing Dettlaff's pajamas backwards, but this time the ridiculousness of that situation makes Geralt let out a little huff of laughter. Regis props Geralt up on the sofa pillows with his legs comfortably stretched out and then fetches the heavy white knit blanket to drape over him, and it still reminds Geralt of slinking shamefully around the apartment with a hideous sickly headache and then admitting the whole sordid affair of his mess of a relationship with Emhyr, but this time he smiles at the way the couple nursed his hangover and soothed his broken heart. </p>
<p>Geralt snuggles up under the warm blanket, settles back on the firm sofa, and looks out the big windows at the wild storm as Regis and Dettlaff recede to the kitchen after reassuring squeezes of his shoulders and strokes of his hair. He listens to the domestic noises from across the apartment: the clink of mugs, the bubbling of the kettle, and the gentle thumps of cabinet doors. Unlike the last time he was in this situation, he doesn't feel like an imposition. He doesn't feel like he's taking up space. He doesn't feel like he should get out of the couple's way as soon as possible, stop wasting their time, and stop pitifully yearning for them right in front of their eyes. Geralt feels wanted. He feels like he belongs here. He's happy for them to see him pining. And he feels loved. </p>
<p>"Here you are. A nice cup of chamomile tea." Regis sounds back to his usual cheery self as he returns to Geralt's side, and then bends down next to the sofa to lower another Dettlaff-crafted mug into Geralt's waiting hands with caution. "Careful - the tea is very hot, but the mug should be only warm to the touch. Rest assured, I would not scald your fingers with reckless abandon." </p>
<p>"Thanks. Smells good. Going to give it a bit, though. Don't want to scald my tongue either." Geralt inhales the chamomile-scented steam, which helps to clear his stuffy nose further, and occasionally blows on the surface of the liquid to cool it down. Dettlaff and Regis situate themselves in the armchairs adjacent to the sofa with their own mugs of tea, and it feels like the kind of romantic day in that Geralt had long ago begun wishing to be an integral part of. The three of them sit in companionable silence and listen to the sounds of the storm for a while. Then, finally, Geralt decides to inflict another awkward attempt at a talk about love on them. "So... what happens now? Y'know... with us?" </p>
<p>"A difficult question to answer, and perhaps one that is best left open-ended for the time being. As such, I hope you will pardon me if I do not attempt a fully comprehensive answer." Regis pairs his reply with a rueful chuckle. "Since the three of us are still in a professional relationship - unprofessional as we may be about it - I don't feel it's appropriate to put a present offer of a romantic relationship on the table at this time. And, as you have recently undergone an unpleasant breakup following several years of related interpersonal turbulence, I think it's best for us all if you are given a bit more time to heal from that experience. However, once <em>Cryptids: Fact &amp; Fantasy</em> is published, and once you feel prepared to embark upon the formation of a new relationship..." </p>
<p>"We would gladly have you," Dettlaff finishes. "If you wish to have us." </p>
<p>"And, Geralt, before you begin to think on this - at risk of being presumptuous, I would like to offer you a few reassurances, if you are amenable to hearing them. I am familiar with your self-deprecating tendencies, and the sort of thoughts that tend to spring from them, so out of an abundance of caution and care, I believe it is wise to pre-empt them. Will you allow me that?" Regis waits for Geralt to nod in assent, then continues to wait until Geralt makes a <em>mhm</em> noise. "Splendid. First, I would like you to know that - if you do decide that you would like to engage in a romantic partnership with Dettlaff and I - we will not view the process of developing this partnership as merging you into our existing relationship; rather, we will view it as building something entirely new, with you as an integral part of it, in which you would be as equal of a partner as Dettlaff and myself. Second, I would like to assure you that no harm will come to my and Dettlaff's relationship should things not work out between the three of us; Dettlaff and I are inseparable, the very core of our beings intertwined by shared experiences of hell and an eternal commitment to each other, so you should not fear that your presence will somehow pose a risk or a danger to our bond. Third, I must impress upon you that any doubts about our feelings and intentions that you may have - particularly once you leave our company, and are alone with your treacherous thoughts - are completely unfounded, and are a mere product of said self-deprecating tendencies. Should you have these doubts, we would like you to call us immediately so that we can remind you of the untruth in them. Geralt, our love, are we clear on all three of these points?" </p>
<p>"Mhm. Yep. Crystal clear." Geralt mumbles the words into his chamomile tea, feeling reassured and chastised and laid completely bare. Once again, Regis has done that thing where he manages to see a target inside Geralt and then aim for it and hit dead center. Geralt would hate that he's so transparent, how easily Regis can see through him, if he didn't <em>need</em> Regis to see through him. Geralt nods. "Thanks. For saying all that."</p>
<p>Because Regis is right: Geralt would have had all those thoughts. He would've done the same thing he always does, where he convinces himself that his concerns and self-evisceration are just addressing reality in an honest and reasonable manner. He would've thought that Dettlaff and Regis were wedging him into a place they'd have to carve out within their relationship, that they'd initially be testing him out to see whether he'd fit into that place long-term, and that he could send the beautiful life they'd built together crashing down by inflicting his mess and his baggage and his failures upon them. Geralt would've tossed and turned tonight, unable to fall asleep, wondering whether he'd made a terrible mistake by promising to shove himself into the couple's happiness and let his darkness eat away at it little by little. Whether he'd made a selfish, awful decision, thinking about his own desires at their expense. He would've felt sick, he would've felt regretful, and he would've felt like he was once again going to ruin everything. But once again, Geralt would be doing the other thing he always does: underestimating other people, distrusting them, disbelieving them, diminishing their strength and their ability to withstand him. Now, though he might not always succeed in identifying it, Geralt knows to look for that thought pattern. And he knows that when Regis and Dettlaff offer him that phone call, they're not just being nice: they genuinely <em>want</em> him to make it. They genuinely want <em>him</em>. </p>
<p>"We will not rush you into a decision, of course. Please take your time," Dettlaff insists. "If you never wish to make a decision, you need not make one." </p>
<p>"A little too late for that," Geralt admits sheepishly. He takes a big sip of warm chamomile tea, holding it in his mouth to savor the taste of the calming herbs, as an excuse to think a little longer about his next words instead of letting his awkwardness get the better of him again. Between the hot tea and the warm blanket, he feels protected enough to suggest, "I'd want to be - partners, or whatever you want to call it. It's been a while since I tried to put a name on something like that. Think you're right about the book, though. Probably better to hold off on the relationship stuff until we've got something ready to publish. And the breakup... could use a little more distance from that. We should do this right, if we're gonna be - whatever you want to call it." </p>
<p>"I would be honored to call you my partner." Dettlaff's beautiful blue eyes are filled with emotions when Geralt turns to see his face: happiness, relief, passion, the fondness that Geralt was so desperately hoping to earn earlier, and something that Geralt might venture - if he was feeling daring - to call <em>love</em>. </p>
<p>"As would I," Regis agrees. Geralt turns to him next, and feels warm and bashful at the level of satisfaction and delight and affection on Regis's face. Geralt's still not confident in his ability to pick the right words, especially not when he's talking about love or trying to pin down exactly what he wants to be to someone, so it's nice to know that his hesitant suggestion has met the approval of the master of words. "I think it would be perfectly lovely to call ourselves partners." </p>
<p>Geralt thinks that would be perfectly lovely too. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not for quite a while - but someday. Someday, he'll be ready for the three of them to call themselves partners. He's not going to rush that day along, not when it's so important for the three of them to get this right, but he knows it will come. And when it does, Geralt will be happy to tell Dettlaff and Regis - his partners - that he's ready. In the meantime, Geralt's content with the knowledge that they want him to be their <em>partner</em>. Geralt's used to uncertainty, to not quite knowing what he is to the people he loves. Not quite knowing what he means to them, or what role he has in their lives. For now, having a word for Geralt's place in Regis and Dettlaff's lives is enough. It's enough to know what space Geralt will get to claim, once he's ready. Someday. </p>
<p>The storm is still going strong by the time the three of them finish their tea. The lightning has gotten more frequent, crackling regularly across the windows in vibrant flashes followed by resonant booms that seem to echo down from the air right above their heads. The maelstrom has gotten so close that it feels like it's engulfing them, the wind howling from all sides, and the sheet of rain has become so thick that it's impossible to see anything but the lightning through it. Geralt tilts his mug over his mouth, patiently waiting for the one last drop of warm chamomile to finish its slow descent down the inside of the ceramic vessel, and figures he's probably stuck here for a while. He doesn't mind. </p>
<p>Being trapped in this apartment by the storm, though, means Geralt can't quit while he's ahead and take off before someone can bring up the major thing that still needs to be addressed. They danced around it a little while ago, getting nearly close enough to touch it, and then backed away with the understanding that touching it before they'd settled things between the three of them would leave them too badly burned to finish what they had started. That thing is going to come up sooner or later, because there's no way it couldn't, so Geralt decides it's better to get the inevitable conversation over with while there's still an easy way to start it. As easy as it's going to get, anyway. Geralt places his mug carefully on the floor beside the sofa, then wiggles under the heavy blanket until he's wrapped up a little more snuggly in it. Then he says, "Does it bother you that I might work things out with Emhyr? Figure out all our baggage, deal with it, and start our relationship over? Don't know if it'll ever happen, if anything's fixable, or if he even wants to fix it. But I'd still fix it, if he wanted to. Start things over with him. Know I told you that before, but... just want to know how you feel about it, I guess." </p>
<p>"Well, that's rather complicated." Regis says it after a pause that's just a little too long, in the voice he uses when he's trying to pick his words even more carefully than usual. Geralt's getting a bad feeling about what the words might end up being, so he fixes his eyes on the neat knitted pattern of the white wool tucked around his body and tries not to fidget. He can hear the clack of a mug being set down on the coffee table, and that makes him even more nervous. Geralt is distinctly reminded that he's still fully capable of ruining this relationship, and as another pause stretches on, he feels a little unsteady  on the firm sofa and wonders whether he's done it already. Emhyr needs to be discussed, and they all knew it, but this might've been too soon. Maybe Geralt should've given them more than a few minutes as future partners before he brought his ex into the picture. Maybe he shouldn't have gone straight from <em>I want to be with you</em> to <em>plus my baby daddy</em>. Maybe he should've given that a second of thought, and realized how dismissive it would sound. Maybe he was an idiot to think that, just because he'd done an okay job at discussing love once, he wouldn't totally fuck it up the next time. Maybe he should've kept in mind that things generally go better for him when he keeps his mouth shut. Maybe he - "Dettlaff, do you mind if I speak for us both?" </p>
<p>"Please do," Dettlaff says. His tone is inflected with something unreadable. Geralt's bad feeling grows worse. The wool gets itchy against his bare hands. "Geralt, this is a topic that Regis and I have discussed." </p>
<p>"Again, forgive our presumptuousness, but an issue of such significance naturally arose during the course of our talks regarding the kind of relationship we would desire with you," Regis says. Geralt scratches the hand that's being painfully itched by the blanket fibers, winces at another crack of lightning, and doesn't think about whether it's better or worse that the couple has already talked through the Emhyr problem. "As we told you in January - unaware, of course, that you were missing the necessary context to understand that we intended it to be interpreted in the polyamorous sense - your romantic and sexual relationships are your own business; we will not pry, nor invade your privacy, nor demand any sort of control over your additional partnerships, liasons, or assorted encounters. This policy does, naturally, extend to Emhyr. However, while we will not insist upon asserting influence over your choice of companionship, our natural concern for your wellbeing may involve concerns regarding said choice of companionship. That would similarly extend to Emhyr." </p>
<p>"Makes sense," Geralt mumbles. That sounds like Regis-speak for <em>you're free to chase after your ex, and we're free to think it's a bad idea</em>. It's a reasonable concern, one he figured Regis and Dettlaff would have, and he didn't expect them to be thrilled about him potentially dating the man who marched through his life in a string of fuck-ups and then broke his heart. Still, Geralt can't help but feel deflated by hearing them say out loud that they're going to be judging him for trying to patch things up. "I get why you'd be concerned." </p>
<p>"As our concerns are based solely in our attention to your wellbeing, we simply wish to ensure that your other relationships are healthy and that you are treated with respect and care. If you will forgive my saying, your previous partnership with Emhyr left much to be desired in those areas. From what you've told us, improvement in said areas would require a great deal of effort - and success is far from guaranteed. While Dettlaff and I are not opposed to you undertaking that effort, and we certainly will not forbid you from anything, I'm sure you understand why we have reservations about the difficulties that may arise for you during the process." Regis still sounds very measured and careful, and Geralt's not used to him walking on conversational eggshells for this long. But finally, to Geralt's relief, Regis sighs and drops the even tone. "Frankly, Geralt, Dettlaff and I are afraid you'll get hurt. That's the last thing we want for you. If we could be certain that all would end well in your reconciliation process with Emhyr, then we would wholeheartedly support it. As the situation stands, we do support you in potentially mending your bond with Emhyr, and we support whatever form that bond may come to take, but we do so cautiously." </p>
<p>"Emhyr is important to you, and with good reason," Dettlaff says. "He is your daughter's father, and you care deeply for each other. It is evident that he has brought you happiness and pleasure, and that he wishes to provide for you and Ciri. Your relationship with him, though difficult, has been beneficial to you. I understand this, as does Regis. I wish happiness for you, and if Emhyr will bring you happiness once more, then I support you finding it in him. But I would urge Emhyr to act with great caution, and to understand that there will be consequences if he harms you. I cannot help my protectiveness, and I do not think it wise to put it aside. My apologies." </p>
<p>"I like the protectiveness. It's hot." Geralt blurts the words out before they can make it to his brain-to-mouth filter, which tries to catch them a couple seconds too late. He has to clasp his hands together under the blanket to keep from smacking himself in the face. It's not the most appropriate response, because the most appropriate response would've contained some kind of appreciation for Regis and Dettlaff pledging to support him in his quest for happiness and defend his heart from the misdeeds of assholes, but he never had a chance at formulating an appropriate response. Geralt's always gotten short-circuited by menacing people saying protective or possessive things in slightly dangerous voices. Emhyr and Yennefer zapped his brain with that habit pretty regularly, and now he's apparently going to have the same problem with Dettlaff. Geralt sighs and hunches his shoulders as both of his future partners laugh at the stupid shit he says when he's turned on, and he gets the feeling that's going to be a frequent problem too. "Sorry. Meant to say -" </p>
<p>"- that it is quite arousing when Dettlaff displays his protective side, which is a sentiment I share." Regis chuckles, not bothering to muffle his mirth. "You are in good company, my dear, and you need not apologize for remarking on the obvious." </p>
<p>"Yeah. Guess I can remark on that now," Geralt says, which feels like more of a revelation than it should. It's a freeing one. After almost a year of silently thirsting over Dettlaff, trying to bury his less innocent thoughts under layers of common decency to keep them from escaping the <em>Inappropriate Comments</em> vault that was starting to overflow, he doesn't have to smother every risque observation that rears its perverse head. They've become <em>Appropriate Comments</em> now. Geralt feels even more freed when he realizes he doesn't have to shut down every tantalizing thought he has about Regis either. Or Dettlaff and Regis together. He doesn't have to feel like a creep, trying to hide his flushed ears and avoid meeting the couple's eyes out of shame over the fantasies he thought would freak out his unsuspecting friends. Geralt can appreciate their attractiveness, and tell them about it. So Geralt feels free to smirk and say, "Was gonna tell you both that I appreciate what you said about that whole thing with Emhyr, but if it's all the same to you... I might as well tell you that Dettlaff's got a great body and I like it when he gets dominant, and Regis is handsome and I like it when he gets all smart and puts me in my place. Good enough?" </p>
<p>"Very good. You may go on, if you wish. We would like to know how to please you." Dettlaff's reply comes in a deep and suggestive voice that leaves Geralt wanting to shiver in ways that might be a little too much for the stage the three of them are at. He changes his mind about saying <em>anything</em> he wants, thanks to the handy reminder that he might get more back than he can handle. </p>
<p>"Dettlaff, have some sympathy for our poor darling. You've made him blush yet again," Regis scolds. Geralt wasn't aware that he was blushing, but now that his attention's been drawn to it, he feels himself blushing even deeper. Regis coos at him, and Geralt thinks it would be just fine if he turned to dust right here on this sofa. Or if the lightning decided to crash through the roof and strike him down. Being drowned by the rain would be slower than he wants, but he'd take that in a pinch. Geralt knows for certain that he's never going to have the upper hand in this relationship - but then again, that's how he likes it. </p>
<p>The storm seems to slow down all at once: the raindrops becoming smaller and further between until they're nothing but light flickers on the window, the clouds thinning out enough for a faint glow of sunshine to radiate through the more dissipated patches, and the startling cracks and crashes quieting into a heavy calm. When the rain fully ceases, the stillness that's left seems to reverberate. Geralt stretches and shifts his curled-over body until he's on his feet, the scrunched up position finally drawing too many complaints from his creaky bones to ignore. He grabs the knit blanket and wraps it around his shoulders like a cloak, warding off the cold and exposed feeling that hit him as soon as he slid out from under its shelter. The window draws him over, and he goes dutifully to watch the quiet city become increasingly visible as the haze over it clears.</p>
<p>"For the record," Geralt says, and then gets cut off by the tolling of the bell in the old North Daevon clock tower. He frowns in the direction of the cracked stone structure emerging out of the gloom, and keeps frowning at it until the clanging stops. He waits until he's sure it's done before continuing, " - same to you two. Relationships, I mean.  And sex. Do whatever you want, with whoever you want, as long as you're happy and you're being treated well. Probably don't have to remind you that I'm not afraid to get protective either, if I have to." </p>
<p>"Your gallantry is appreciated," Dettlaff replies, with a teasing note that makes Geralt suspect he's being viewed less like a ferocious wolf and more like an adorable puppy with a particularly deep growl. He's used to people cowering from the idea of him getting menacing, not sounding like they want to pat him on the head, but he doesn't feel as diminished or offended as he'd expect to. After the terrible things Geralt's admitted to doing, it's kind of nice to be treated like something generally harmless instead of a cold-blooded killer. "Regardless, I doubt we will need it."  </p>
<p>"I must agree. You would be quite dashing as a knight in shining armor, Sir Geralt, but Dettlaff and I are unlikely to be wronged by unscrupulous paramours - simply because neither of us is likely to take up with one." Regis sounds equally endeared by Geralt, and that feels nice too. "Though it is within the realm of possibility that one or both of us may develop a passing fancy for another, whether jointly or independently, the possibility seems remote - and the possibility of developing a serious interest seems even more remote still. In the twelve years that Dettlaff and I have been coupled, our eyes have roamed, as eyes are naturally wont to do, but at no point have either of us become actively desirous of someone outside our partnership - that is, of course, until present company happened across our path and we simply could not keep from tumbling head over heels, but the process by which you set our hearts aflutter need not be rehashed. What I mean to say is that, while Dettlaff and I would certainly maintain extensive communication with you should we develop the aforementioned passing fancy or significant interest and wish to act upon it, I feel confident in stating that you should not expect that communication to arise anytime soon, if ever." </p>
<p>"Happy to have you two all to myself, if that's how it works out," Geralt replies with a shrug. It's overwhelming to know that he's the only person in twelve years that's caught Regis's or Dettlaff's interest enough to pursue, particularly because there's nothing all that special about him, and he gets so caught up in the revelation that it takes him a minute to realize his response could come off wrong. "Not that you two don't have all of me, because of - Emhyr or someone. Guess it'd be sharing, technically, but you'd still have... all of... even though..."</p>
<p>"We know, our dearest, we know." Regis is merciful enough to cut Geralt off before he can try to muddle through a very unfortunate metaphor about an infinite pie where different people taking slices of the pie doesn't leave less pie for anyone else. "You are, of course, speaking to two people with personal experience on the matter. If anyone should know about the ever-expanding capacity for love, it would be Dettlaff and I. We have, after all, spent the past several months with the acute awareness that love is not a limited and finite resource that must be divided up and shared, with each new partner leaving less love for another. Our love for each other has remained undiminished, even as our love for you has grown - and, in truth, developing our love for you together has made our own grow ever more stronger. You have brought us closer together without even knowing it. So you need not worry that we will believe you are any less devoted to us, or that you care any less for us, on account of Emhyr - or anyone else. You are a deeply caring and devoted person, Geralt, and we could never question the limits of your ability to love." </p>
<p>"Plenty of me to go around," Geralt says, and it's far from an adequate response, but trying to come up with an adequate response would probably make him get emotional and he's done more than enough of that today. He's done enough of it for a lifetime. Unfortunately, he's already committed himself to doing it again in therapy, so he'd better find an ever-expanding capacity for that too. Thinking about therapy reminds Geralt what he's about to go through, how much work he's going to have to do on himself, and how much trouble he's going to be for the people who love him while he's doing it. He fiddles with the edges of the blanket, pulling it tighter around himself. "Don't mind waiting for me to figure things out? Putting up with me in the meantime? Know I'm difficult to deal with, gonna be even more difficult with that therapy stuff going on, and there's not a whole lot to justify the wait -" </p>
<p>"Geralt, my love, not one more word out of you." Regis pushes himself up from his armchair and crosses the room with a few quick strides, cupping Geralt's cheek in his palm as soon as he's within range. It's an effective way to shut Geralt up, but it doesn't do anything to cut off his train of thought. Even now, he can't stop saying the wrong things and asking the wrong questions. He can't simply take the chance he's been given without reminding the people kind enough to give it to him that he's going to make their lives worse off for it. He presses his face into Regis's hand in a kind of apology, keeping his eyes downcast. Regis sighs, like he can't believe he has to deal with Geralt's bullshit again, and then leans in to touch his forehead to Geralt's for a few seconds before pulling away to speak. "We don't intend to "put up with" you, Geralt; we intend to support you. To join you on your journey and provide whatever help you require. You will have as much time as you need to "figure things out" in regards to our relationship, decades if necessary - and should you lose interest in the idea entirely, we will accept your decision and remain your caring friends for as long as you'll have us. You need not "justify the wait", as every moment spent with you is worth it simply for the sake of your company. The only thing we ask of you, regardless of your final decision, is for you to understand that you are someone worth supporting and someone worth waiting for." </p>
<p>Dettlaff has joined Geralt and Regis by the window, but Geralt isn't sure when, because Regis's words have been making it difficult for him to get enough air in his lungs and clear his head. Geralt becomes fully aware of Dettlaff's presence when a big hand rests on his hip, and soft breath warms the side of his face that Regis isn't holding. "May I?" Dettlaff asks, low and close to Geralt's ear, and Geralt nods without hesitation; he doesn't know what he's being asked, but he trusts that Dettlaff would only ask to do something he's sure Geralt would grant permission for. It turns out that Geralt is right to put his trust in Dettlaff, because Dettlaff does one of the things that Geralt has been desperately wanting: he slowly and tenderly kisses Geralt's cheek. </p>
<p>"Dare I ask as well?" Regis says, and Geralt nods on pure instinct. It's the same instinct that tells him to put his hand out for Regis to pat it, to lean over to make contact with Dettlaff, to drift forward to be pulled into Dettlaff's or Regis's arms, to inform them through a single heartwrenching look that he needs them. The instinct that tells him to get closer to Regis and Dettlaff, to get more of their touches, more of their attention, more of <em>them</em>. Geralt's instincts are rewarded when Regis replaces his palm with his lips, in an equally gentle kiss. </p>
<p>The sound of aggressive buzzing overlaid with an ominously pulsing siren snaps Geralt out of the way his mind has been blanked by all his inner fuses blowing. He lets out a groaning sigh that droops into a frown as the pocket of his jeans doesn't do anything to muffle the next addition to the cacophony: a robotic voice chanting <em>WARNING. WARNING. WARNING</em>. Dettlaff and Regis have removed their lips from his face with two simultaneous startled jumps, so Geralt figures the best move is to retreat at top speed to the kitchen while fishing out his phone and desperately poking at the screen to stop the unsettling ringtone that Ciri set for herself and won't tell him how to change. Geralt manages to answer the call before the wailing siren joins the mix, then sinks down into a dining room chair and hunches over the table in shame. "Hey, Ciri." </p>
<p>"Geralt! Our fridge is attempting to drown me!" Ciri's indignant cry is so loud that the speaker buzzes, and Geralt has to hold the phone a few inches away from his head to keep from having his ears echo with his daughter's irate voice for hours. "It is flooding our kitchen, and at first I thought it was just trying to destroy those awful floor tiles - I couldn't blame it for that - but then the water level kept rising, and I think it is trying to <em>drown</em> me!"  </p>
<p>"Well, there goes our cereal," Geralt says. He doesn't know what else to say to the revelation that his house is currently being consumed by a flood. </p>
<p>Ciri giggles. Geralt's glad she can find some humor in this. "We'll get new cereal. And new floor tiles. And a fridge that doesn't have an Arctic Wasteland. We'll also need new cabinets, a new dishwasher, new furniture, new... well, let's just say Papa will be opening his wallet rather wide to fix this one. Sorry, Geralt, but we aren't going to be able to pay for these repairs without Papa's help." </p>
<p>"I know. I don't have any money. Only a matter of time before he ripped out our kitchen and put in a new one anyway." Geralt sighs. He closes his eyes and rubs one of his temples, using the hand that's not still holding his phone at a considerable distance in case Ciri starts yelling again. "I'll be right home. Put up a barricade in the kitchen doorway. Use strong materials, couple different horizontal pieces so we can bail out the room more easily without taking the whole thing off at once, get a good seal with duct tape. Don't want the rest of the house getting flooded too, if we can help it." </p>
<p>"Obviously we don't want that, and I already put up a barricade. I was raised by <em>you</em>, Geralt, do you think I would just sit idly by in the face of imminent peril?" Ciri lets out a long-suffering huff, and Geralt doesn't need to see her face to know she's rolling her eyes. "You'd better hurry. If I end up stranded atop this chair because my father didn't love me enough to break every speed limit in Kaedwen to rescue me from the swimming pool forming in our kitchen, then I will be absolutely furious." </p>
<p>"You're still in the kitchen?" Geralt furrows his brow, lowering his head into his palm and shaking it. "Ciri, you know you can leave the kitchen." </p>
<p>"And leave the fridge to do whatever it will, without a watchful eye on its dastardly deeds? Not a chance!" Ciri's returned to her original level of indignation, and her original volume. Geralt's glad he had the foresight not to return the phone to the close vicinity of his ear. "Don't worry, I won't drown. I wouldn't give the fridge the satisfaction of killing me. Now hurry!" </p>
<p>Ciri hangs up before Geralt can get another word in, but that's probably for the best. </p>
<p>Geralt pushes himself up from the chair a lot more quickly than he sat down in it, and his joints don't appreciate that, but that's the price of fatherhood. Regis and Dettlaff rush into the kitchen, still looking a bit rattled by top-volume emergency warning sirens going off when they kissed Geralt - and, really, Geralt can't think of a better reminder of what they're in for by claiming him as theirs. Their upcoming relationship is off to a fitting start. Geralt sprints for the front door, fully aware of how bad it looks to take off running from the men who just kissed him, and forces himself not to cringe so he doesn't make the terrible optics look even worse. As he dashes for the exit from his future partners' apartment, Geralt calls over his shoulder, "House is flooding. Daughter is trapping herself on a chair. Would love to kiss you back, but my kid might drown. This is what you signed up to deal with, taking on me and Ciri, so, good luck."  </p>
<p>"We'll see you out," Regis shouts after him. Geralt's brief pause to wrench open the door gives Regis and Dettlaff enough time to catch up with him, and together, the three of them charge into the hallway and towards the stairs leading out of the building. The thumping of their footfalls, muffled by the carpet, mirrors the rapid beating of Geralt's heart. </p>
<p>"Can't promise my mind won't change. I might be more messed up than I think." Geralt forces the words out in a hasty jumble, rising and falling with his strained breath, while he still has time to say them. "Don't know when I'll be ready to be your partner. But I think I will be, someday. And I hope it's someday soon."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>warnings: discussion of drug addiction, overdose, and recovery; brief discussion of suicidal tendencies; discussion of trauma; short depiction of PTSD.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you to #KbasSquad for being the perpetual MVPs and cheerleaders/enablers (particularly the 3AMfishpaperdango group), KB for the sanity maintenance and caffeine provision, and Rebecca for the encouragement/productivity threats (I should've taken the free scissors). </p><p>
  <a href="http://wraithproblem.tumblr.com">tumblr @ wraithproblem</a>
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